Coda
by EGL
Summary: Clarice pursues the GD after the debacle on the Chesapeake. Conversations and transformations follow. First attempt at a fan fic. Hoping for some blue pencil type feedback as this is a longish fic (13 chapters and 40,000 words) - you have been warned !
1. Preamble

I find guilt to be a great motivator.  While sitting with jaw dropping wonderment at other fan fics on these boards, I have felt very chary about jumping into the discussions etc. without skipping over the flaming coals myself so …. herewith my first effort at any fiction at all (since the age of 15) and my first ever attempt at a fan fic in any genre.

The characters Dr. Hannibal Lecter, Clarice Starling, and other characters contained in these posts were created by Thomas Harris. They are used herein without permission, but in the spirit of admiration and respect. No infringement of copyright is intended, and no profit, of any kind, is made by the maintainer, creators or contributors to this site.

Timeline :  After Hannibal (the movie version) Reluctantly follows film canons.

Precis :  Clarice continues to hunt the GD and tracks him down to home territory.  Conversations follow with the inevitable transformations etc…. etc…

"Clariiice ! get in here will ya !" 

Morton Amsterdam, breathed heavily through vermilion nostrils, shirt buttons sstraining over his bulging gut.  He flashed a little gold through his smile.  His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows.  There was a crushed bagel sitting on top of a pile of papers on his desk and he had some cream cheese on his lower lip.  

One stubby forefinger pointed at a gold edged card sitting on top of a pile of invoices.  "Your boat just came in.  Some guy who does business with Christies wants to see ya "  Morton wiped the cream cheese from his lip with a tiny crumpled paper napkin and used a pencil to precisely rotate the business card so Clarice could read it.

Alexander Montefiore

Antiques

Followed by a discreet address that Clarice didn't recognise.  The font was a variation of Engravers in matt black.  Clarice ran her fingers round the edge of the card.  It was thick and stiff.

"Ya see, education pays" Morton chuckled.

"I guess so, " replied Clarice.  She didn't recognise the name from her antiques class nor from the sales pitch to the Boston chapter of the Antique Dealers Association.

"Go for it Clarice! The guy wants something shipped, by hand.  So he knows the business when he sees it – what can I say?  Besides, I can't fit into aeroplane seats any more."  A huge laugh quivered the coffee in the polystyrene mug on the desk.

"Come on gal, you deserve a break.  I smell money, hotel suites, champagne.  Go see the guy tomorrow and find out what he wants and then we'll look at your caseload – OK?  Ya know the trouble with Lutherans?  They don't enjoy sinning enough".  Morton licked his lips and pushed the rest of the stuffed bagel into his mouth.

Clarice had to smile.  Morton and his partner Norman had been generous and warm when everything else around her had turned to ashes_.  Bluff and funny and claiming that they never read the National Enquirer, they had just given her a desk and told her to get on with her job.  Her first assignment at Giffin and Amsterdam,  "Discreet, Personal, Professional Service, Boston Mass." had been to vet the security at a clothing warehouse which had been suffering from 6 months of petty pilfering.  A little covert surveillance and some cosy chats with a few of the girls who worked there had got a result in 2 weeks.  Norm and Mort were deeply impressed by her protestant work ethic, but despaired at her lack of humour._

Clarice was impressed by their eternal sunny optimism and the complete absence of whispers, questions and sidelong glances in the office.

At the end of her first job, Norman had taken her out for a drink to Firmans, their local bar. It was full of well-worn fixtures and fittings, and regular slow drinkers in crumpled suits, fixed on the same stools, leaning on the same portion of polished mahogany, Monday to Friday.  Clarice didn't appreciate the smoke but welcomed the warmth of the place, the gentle up and down of the conversation, the gleam of the glasses and old red leather.

Norman had leaned earnestly over his dewy glass of beer.  "What this business needs Clarice, is a touch of class, and believe me, Mort and I know class when we see it ".

Clarice had received no compliments over the previous year and these words, voiced with complete sincerity, had been like a glimpse of sun in the middle of a long winter, even if she had difficulty giving any real credence to the sentiments.  She felt mean about not being more gracious.

"Sure you've had a rough time, but I look at you and see a tall elegant cypress – bends in the wind, may lose a branch or two in a storm but grows straight and tall and beautiful."

Clarice forced a smile.  Norman had a very determined wife and 3 rumbustious children.  He wrote poetry on pieces of discarded paper in the office.  He would try out stanzas on Clarice while eating his breakfast Danish.  That was his escape.

Clarice reviewed her escapes.  She was clear sighted enough to see, that they only served superficially, as distractions.

The excuse that she had made up for herself was "know thy enemy" so, with single minded devotion, she had, applied herself to that task – the antiques class, the trips to the auction houses to watch the business of trading, the subscription to the Boston Symphony and the distance learning package from Opera America. The discarded magazines in her tiny apartment and her CD's in the car, at the office and in her bedroom, all focused on her 24 hour per day vocation.  At the weekends she "did" the galleries, and ran, and listened to more music. Twice a month she saved up and bought a couple of good bottles of wine or one expensive meal out.  She caught sight of him occasionally, at the back of an auction room, in the bar at Symphony Hall –  chimeras every time.

She valued the solitariness of these pursuits.  She went out of her way to be merely polite and distant at the antiques class and all the activity gave her an excuse not to join Morton and Norman's families at the weekends.

When she had trouble sleeping she would listen to the tapes.  She could recite what they said, verbatim, it was the sound of his voice, relaxed with Barney that calmed her too.

The fall out of all this education, for Giffin and Amsterdam, was on the security side of the antiques business.  It brought in a little extra money and raised their profile.  This salved Clarice's conscience to a degree, as in truth, she really felt she was marking time – for her, this job was simply a means to an end.

The nightmare had receded and what had been an all-consuming fire was now almost at the ice cold stage – perfect for incisive planning, reasoned Clarice.  She could feel her resolve, like a tight, steel spring, in the pit of her stomach, every day.  

She viewed losing Dr Lecter very much as unfinished business – the manila folder still poking out of the filing cabinet drawer.  She had been tutored almost from birth with the standard Protestant craftsman maxims - "If a job is worth doing, it's worth doing well"  "Always finish what you are doing before you sit down to supper".  She viewed what had happened at Muskrat Farm and the aftermath as a messy piece of work – she took exception to her sloppiness.  She chose not to examine her motives any deeper than that, even though they sneaked out and winked at her from time to time after a bottle of wine.

After the night on the Chesapeake the storm had lashed around her for a good 3 months.  The FBI had done what embarrassed public organisations do best.  There was the examination that night, conducted by a zealous ER attending with greasy hair - a man who clearly enjoyed his work. He asked her to strip first of all, licking his lips under the examination light.  

"Have to check for bruising" he explained.  Then the photographs.  Then the internals.  Clarice had concentrated on the flickering light in the ceiling.  'That light needs seeing to,' she thought as Dr. Webster inserted the speculum and enthusiastically probed and fingered, with a fixed smile on his lips.  "Well, no sign of any interference Clarice ".  He hissed his sibilants.  "But I won't know for sure until the path people peep down their microscope tomorrow morning."  He smirked.  An image rose unbidden in Clarice's mind - a crimson knife cut extending the smile up both cheeks, to the ears.  

Ardelia had got hold of the confidential report through one of her ex boyfriends – "no evidence of any penetrative sexual assault, vaginally, rectally or intraorally".  The spokesman for the FBI had hesitated in the first press conference – "Ms Starling remembers very little of her encounter with Dr Lecter, at the moment, as she was drugged at the time.  We will be running further physical and psychiatric tests."  Which they did, with a series of bruising interrogations.

There was the public blaming and shaming, the tapped phone, the vetted post, the selected leaks from her service record, the press camped on her doorstep and the subtle spinning by the FBI press office.  "Ms Starling has been under a lot of strain over the last 2 years; she has been a little free with the use of force culminating in the attempted arrest of Evelda Drumgo … lack of cool judgement … over-emotional… vulnerable state … got very involved with the Lecter case – working alone in a basement office to all hours; and so on and on. The word "obsession" appeared damningly in the final report to the DA's office.  They didn't want to prosecute – too much visibility, time and money.  Both the FBI and Clarice were convinced that Lecter had left the USA.  "Off our turf, let someone else worry about him, let all this die, let Clarice Starling die"

Ardelia had taken the bull by the horns and had called Clarice.

"What the fuck do you think you were doing?  What's the matter with you? Jesus H Christ Clarice do you have a death wish or something?  You know they're going to crucify you for this, " and then after a small pause  "Do you need somewhere to stay?"

Clarice was hypersensitive to the position Ardelia was putting herself in, with the Bureau, by making this offer.

"Thanks Ardelia.  Believe me I appreciate the offer but I just don't think it would be a good idea right now.  Mud sticks"

"Yeah…. I guess" Comically, Ardelia sounded simultaneously relieved and uncertain.

"What the fuck are you going to do Clarice?"

"Don't worry Ardelia.  I'll survive and maybe even thrive out of the swamp"

Clarice had found her coping mechanism.  It was to concentrate on what she did best – hunting. 


	2. The Hunt

Chapter 2     The Hunt 

_The characters Dr. Hannibal Lecter, Clarice Starling, and other characters contained in these posts were created by Thomas Harris. They are used herein without permission, but in the spirit of admiration and respect. No infringement of copyright is intended, and no profit, of any kind, is made by the maintainer, creators or contributors to this site._

Trapped in her house, she had taken to surfing the net and had fallen upon a Polish genealogy site that had been of some assistance with Dr Lecter's European antecedents.  They had directed her to a couple of professional researchers and the Red Cross refugee records, kept in London and Geneva.

The only information that Clarice had, was the incomplete biographical record in the FBI files, memorised, in the basement, down to the last coffee ring.  A name, details of the adoptive parents  - now both dead with no issue or family and some incomplete immigration papers with a Red Cross identifier.  These indicated that Hannibal Lecter had been embarked at Southampton, to come to the USA and that he had been under the care of the Red Cross in the UK, up until then. 

With the formal investigations over, no charges brought against her, and her resignation papers all neatly filed away, the FBI finally returned her passport.  Clarice had already decided to move out of Washington to Boston – part of a grander plan, but for now she felt an urge to get out of the US.  She rented the house and sank her savings into a cheap 7-day return flight to the UK.

London matched her mood – permanently overcast, damp and with a tube strike on the day she arrived.  The researchers had warned her that the chances of tracing this particular family were slim, unless there were surviving church records, as many civil records had been lost during the war.  Further research would have to be conducted locally in Lithuania and would be prohibitively expensive.  This simply left the surviving Red Cross records.

The British records were housed in a defunct ventilation plant for the underground – empty now of all equipment and concrete lined, with a good inbuilt airflow to keep it dry.  The records were filed in racks of banker's boxes accessible by footstool and ladder.

" This plant was built to withstand the Blitz, you know, " said the diminutive librarian.  He looked about 25, quite slight with jet black floppy hair, parchment coloured skin and a couple of large zits on the back of his neck.  He didn't look strong enough to manhandle the banker's boxes onto the long tables between the aisles, but he seemed to know his business very exactly and helped Clarice riffling through the records with great speed and concentration.

The Red Cross Identifier put a Hannibal Lecter aged (9 ?) in an internment facility in a Georgian country house in Hampshire in October 1947.  The European immigration records weren't in the file, so unless there were additional files in Geneva, there was no way of tracing this individual's country of origin, or indeed, where he had been picked up, on mainland Europe.  Clarice thanked him, politely declined an offer of a lunchtime drink and simply asked for directions on how to get to Hampshire.

Clarice took the trip by train and local taxi to a village about 3 miles from where the house used to be, according to a web site called 'Hampshire Treasures'.  The publican of the local hostelry (The Slug and Lettuce), an ex-footballer and his very blonde wife, were sociable and gossipy.  The house had been demolished many years ago, however, the publican directed Clarice to a retired vicar in a red brick Victorian villa, stranded with some other houses along a pot holed road at one end of the village.  "If anyone knows about the house, Mr Sowerby will.  Been around for years and years.  Looked after two parishes for a while, so he knows everyone around these parts"

Mr Sowerby had poorly fitting dentures, a bristly chin and lumpy armchairs but was welcoming and expansive.

"Yes…there were about 30 children housed in the old manor.  Terrible, really.  All half starved when they first arrived.  I'll never forget seeing them as they got off the train, standing on the platform looking totally lost, huddled together with just a brown paper parcel each – a pathetic sight.  4 or 5 of them were quite feral, of course – uncontrollable.  All of them deeply disturbed in one way or another.  The villagers wouldn't allow them in the church – some of them used to scream, you see.  So I used to do a Saturday service for them, at the house.  They had an old grand piano in the ballroom.   One of the boys, I remember, tuned it by ear – remarkable.  It hadn't been played for months or maybe years.  One Saturday, I marched into the ballroom to set up things for the service and lo and behold, there he was, playing a **_Chopin mazurka _from memory.  Extraordinary."**

Mr Sowerby paused and stroked a book balanced on the arm of his chair.  

"This child had terrible eyes, I remember.  Unreachable, I thought.  I brought him some sheet music to play as I had studied the piano myself, in a minor way, at University.  He devoured it … metaphorically speaking, you understand.  What they all must have been through, one simply can't imagine."

Clarice could taste copper in her mouth.  " Do you remember the name of this particular boy or where he had come from sir?  This boy you describe, his piano playing - does sound like the person I am trying to trace"

Mr Sowerby shuffled uncomfortably in his chair and fidgeted with a button on his cardigan.  "The Red Cross employed some Polish soldiers and airmen to act as interpreters and some other displaced persons to look after these children.  These were all people who had been unable to return to Europe, directly after the war for one reason or another.  They had no experience of course, in looking after children, in the main, and certainly no experience of dealing sensibly with disturbed children.  I am afraid that the care was not up to present day standards, at all."  Mr Sowerby looked up uneasily at Clarice.  "Things were very different in those days."  He paused and shuffled his feet in his carpet slippers among the biscuit crumbs on the floor.

"One night this boy came to the door of the vicarage.  My housekeeper let him in.  He could barely walk.  I think he had been beaten – he had welts across the back of his legs.  He said nothing.  He just handed me a photograph he had under his coat.  When my housekeeper tried to comfort him he spat at her.  I never saw him again.  I think he must have been moved somewhere else the next day or very soon afterwards."

Clarice sat very still, the milky tea curdling in her cup.  "Do you still have the photograph sir?"

Mr Sowerby stirred himself.  "Yes, yes I do as a matter of fact – bit of a hoarder as you can see."  He wafted his hand round his study.  Books on shelves, piled haphazardly on desks and over the floor, covered in layers of dust with loose paper cascading everywhere, old newspaper clippings, sketches, music manuscripts 

'Miss Havisham' thought Clarice.

"Of course, this may be a photograph of one of your relatives.  Let me see if I can find it."  Full now of energy, with the prospect of helping Clarice, Mr Sowerby struggled out of his chair.  He paused to think for a moment and then went directly to a mahogany music cabinet with a series of drop front drawers with curved brass handles.  He drew out an old cigar case and placed it carefully on his desk after clearing a space.  Clarice held her breath.  He opened the lid and the smell of cigars and cedar wood filled her nostrils.  There were a stack of old, sepia tinted photographs, of various sizes inside.  Mr Sowerby began to carefully sort through them, mumbling and chuckling to himself as he looked at each one through his half moon specs.  Finally  "Aah, this is it " After a lingering look at the yellowed rectangle of paper, he passed it to Clarice.

Same eyes.  Thought Clarice, immediately.  She turned to the light coming through the grimed windows of this Victorian parlour and looked straight into two burning pinwheels.

No surprise, really, except that this was a woman of about 25 in a low cut, black dress, finely embroidered and laced with black pearls, in abundance over the tight fitting bodice.  The back and neck were very straight, her shoulders sloping and alabaster smooth.  She was wearing an elaborate filigree necklace, which covered her neck and dropped into the curve between her breasts.  Her lips were beautiful, full and apparently carved out of stone, the lines were so perfect.  The eyebrows were too thick and dark for her to be marked as a real beauty, however, the way this woman commanded the viewer and the set of her shoulders marked her as pure patrician stock.

Clarice had no doubt that this was either his mother or grandmother.

Clarice turned the photograph over.

Principessa Caterina Maria d'Este

Ferrara 1929

Hannibal, che ognora madre adorera Vilnius, 1941

Clarice's heart leaped.  "May I take this, to make a copy and then return it to you?"

Mr Sowerby could see the light in Clarice's eyes and heard the urgency in her voice.  He had seen the same on hunt days, in the village.

"Of course, of course, my dear."  He flicked his fingers at her almost willing the photograph into her bag.

Clarice thanked Mr Sowerby in her best Bureau manner and departed whistling **_Si ritrovarla io gino from La Cenerentola._  As her Italian was a little basic, the irony of the words didn't strike her until she was on the train back to London, listening to it on her CD.**

Money gone, she had to find employment before taking up the pursuit.  The FBI, at least, had taught her the virtues of patience and thrift


	3. The business card

Chapter 3 The Business Card 

The characters Dr. Hannibal Lecter, Clarice Starling, and other characters contained in these posts were created by Thomas Harris. They are used herein without permission, but in the spirit of admiration and respect. No infringement of copyright is intended, and no profit, of any kind, is made by the maintainer, creators or contributors to this site.

Clarice fixed herself some soup and bread for supper. This bread she had made 2 days ago. She found the mixing and kneading very cathartic – as good as running. She put on some Vivaldi – **_the 588 Gloria and the 610 Magnificat_. The tempi helped her think.**

Clarice ran her fingers around the edge of the card. The gold lodged in her finger creases. She retrieved the photograph of the Principessa from its black cardboard sleeve. She stared at the photograph. It reminded her of the look in his eyes as she had slipped to her knees in his blood.

She dressed carefully next morning, alert to the fact that this was new business for Gutkin and Amsterdam.

Alexander Montefiore's residence was a dark but impeccably restored brownstone. There was a heavy brass bell pull and during the 2 minute wait before the door opened, Clarice had time to admire the perfectly trimmed box trees in the terra cotta pots on the doorstep. A camera stared at her balefully from the top of the front bay window. There was a discrete click as the front door opened. Alexander Montefiore was tall – about 6' 2" with narrow shoulders made to look larger and squarer by the cut of his suit. 'No expense spared' thought Clarice. He had a long thin, face, a broad mouth with thin lips and surprised looking eyes almost disappearing under a fashionably floppy fringe. His fair hair, she noticed, just curled over the stiff white collar of his shirt. He gave her a professional, non-committal smile without parting his lips. Clarice wondered if he used lip liner.

"Ms Starling I presume? Please come in." He stepped to one side and extended long thin fingers to draw her into the house. "Your reputation precedes you Ms Starling. My colleague Sebastian Ffoulkes gave me your name. He speaks very highly of your forthright views on the effectiveness of video surveillance. You saved him some money, I think. " He licked his lips as he studied Clarice through pale eyelashes.

"How can I help Mr Montefiore?"

"I have a client for whom I purchased a particularly startling piece of jewellery 2 months ago. He requires that this very valuable piece be couriered by hand to Europe, there are problems with the Russian mafia, in that area of the world, and he doesn't want to entrust it to a commercial carrier."

Clarice felt her stomach contract.

"Please come this way and allow me to show you the piece in question"

They had been standing in the hall on a dark and glassily polished inlaid wood floor. The walls carried embossed wallpaper the colour of rust. A staircase with curved and elaborate ironwork stanchions and a heavy curved handrail swept up into the darkness of the next floor. The hall was lit by an impressively ornate brass chandelier.

Mr Montefiore preceded Clarice, gliding on almost silent leather loafers, down the corridor to a heavy gleaming mahogany door. He gave Clarice a deprecatory smile as he turned the chased brass door handle and ushered her into the library. This room was about 12 ' high. There were tall windows, half shuttered, dark green and gold wallpaper, dark green candles in brass candlesticks on a polished black marble chimney piece, and more brass wall lamps giving off a feeble glow in this very tall room. There was a large mirror with a heavy gilded frame over the fireplace, reflecting the light back from the massively draped windows. There was a dark red Persian carpet over an almost black polished wood floor, a couple of old red leather winged armchairs and a large sofa covered in worn red and gold tapestry. The overall effect was oppressive.

Mr Montefiore indicated a fine inlaid marquetry desk with brass chasing, in the centre of the room. There was a brass library lamp to one side, casting a cone of light over a flat purple velvet case in the middle of the table. The velvet was as fine as the skin on a peach. Mr Montefiore took a small brass key from his embroidered waistcoat pocket and inserted it into the small lock at the front of the case. He rotated the case so Clarice could see better and opened the lid. Clarice's mouth went dry. Spread out on the folds of ivory silk lining the box was the Principessa's necklace, or its twin.

Mr Montefiore looked deeply satisfied with himself. "It is of course, unique. It was made for the Russian Imperial Family, in Paris about 1827. It was given to one of the official "collectors" for the Hermitage Museum by a grateful Tsar Nicholas, before the tragedy."

"Do you know the name of the collector's family?" Clarice asked sharply

Montefiore looked at her, a little surprised. "Lecter was the patronymic. An old family, so the original derivation was not Russian – almost certainly Jewish, originally. They had extensive estates in Lithuania. They had a house full of loot that the Hermitage didn't want or at least never arrived in St Petersburg. All lost during the war of course." Clarice's heart began to pound.

"May I know the name of your client sir?" Clarice kicked herself as soon as the words were out of her mouth.

Montefiore's lips curled. "In your business I am sure you appreciate the value of privacy. Your instructions are to deliver this to an address in Lithuania that will be given to you when you reach Vilnius. All expenses paid. Business Class airfare to Frankfurt and then Economy class once you are inside Europe. My clients are very generous provided they feel they are getting the right sort of service. I have an agent in Warsaw who will assist you. Seductive isn't it?" Clarice hadn't been able to keep her eyes off the necklace while Montefiore was talking. There were rubies in the centre and in this light they glowed like coals. He abruptly shut the case. "Can I assume that you would be willing to deliver this?" His long pale fingers with the polished nails rested, spread out on the velvet top of the case.

"In principle, yes but I need to check with my boss. Can I have him call you to discuss the final details?"

"Of course. All the export, insurance and customs paper work is ready – it will simply be a matter of booking the flights and obtaining a visa – I have a contact at the embassy who will be able to assist you." He gave Clarice a particularly oily smile.

Clarice paused for a second. "I'm a little surprised that you approached Gutkin and Amsterdam for this business, Mr Montefiore"

Montefiore drawled his reply. "As I said, your reputation preceded you Ms Starling. Oh, and I looked you up in the Guinness Book of Records. There have been problems in this area of Lithuania with kidnapping, extortion, large-scale robberies and so on. An ordinary courier simply wouldn't be acceptable." He gave Clarice a small patronising smile. "If your principal could call me fairly soon, I would be grateful – my clients value prompt service and we have had enough delay with the export people already. Thank you." He started to usher Clarice out of the library. "You will collect it in person won't you Ms Starling? It is an extremely valuable piece." His eyes had started to flick over her suit resting briefly on the curve of her breasts.

"Of course, Mr Montefiore." Clarice walked ahead of him her heels tapping on the polished wood floor. She sensed him right behind. Her muscles tensed a little, waiting for some contact, somewhere. He grasped her upper arm, quite firmly at the front door. " I look forward to a confirmation from Mr Amsterdam today. " He smiled again – a small flash of very white teeth between thin pink lips.

Out in the fresh air, Clarice couldn't feel vexed with Montefiore – she felt too exulted for that. After the first rush had subsided, however, her brain engaged and she realised that this couldn't be just a coincidence. Dr Lecter had specifically requested that she do the delivery. Now what ?

She had no friends in the FBI, since John Brigham had died. Jack Crawford had come to see her during the interrogations and had leaned on his knees, his hands tightly clasped in front of him and looked bleakly at her and had said those words "I told you not to let him inside your head Clarice. As far as I am concerned you are a lost cause. I can do nothing. My hands are tied. " That had hurt.

Ardelia, too had not been in touch since she had moved to Boston and on the couple of occasions that Clarice had called, Ardelia had been non committal or cagey. Clarice wondered if they were tapping Ardelia's phone.

Anyways, she felt that Dr Lecter was really "her" property or responsibility or whatever. If she called Pearsall with her suspicions, it would simply confirm the "obsession" tag. They would dismiss it all out of hand.

So …. she would have to rely on the police in Europe, once she was there – Interpol or whoever was handy. She remembered she had some old contacts in Interpol – better to call before she started, to see if they were still around and would talk to her.

Morton shut the door of his office while he talked money with Mr Montefiore over the phone.

"Jeez Clarice I wish I had your … assets" he said jovially, working large bushy eyebrows up and down – in a poor imitation of Groucho Marx. " All set. This man has money to BURN " Morton smacked his lips and rubbed his hands together. "Need you back here inside a week. Your contact is a Mr Lewandowska in Warsaw. Here's his number. You book the tickets, Montefiore reimburses the firm. You pick the goods up and he gives you a great fat wad of cash to spend on wine, men and song. I think he wants this job done in a hurry, so why don't you pass the Fuller case and that video surveillance thing over to Norman and go book yourself a flight. Enjoy " Morton beamed and meant it.

A sleek dark haired woman in her early 30's, Clarice judged, opened Mr Montefiore's door. She priced Clarice's clothes with one disparaging glance and asked her to wait in the gleaming hall while she fetched the papers and the package from the safe. The velvet case was inside a heavy leather carrying bag with a lock and thick leather wrist strap. The papers came in a heavy ivory card folder held with purple ties. The money was in a thick ivory envelope with purple lining paper. Not very practical, thought Clarice, but plenty of style. The young woman passed the items to Clarice with a careless flick of her fingers. 'Smooth red nails so she doesn't work for a living' thought Clarice, acidly. 

Clarice had only ever once had a professional manicure. Her hands had felt brand new, afterwards. She refused to handle her guns for the entire weekend. Reality had asserted itself on the following Monday when she was called to view a body ten days old. She had found in the past that spoiling herself had always been rewarded by some disaster or other. She didn't really believe in divine retribution but in her experience, it seemed to operate, anyway. 

The door of the brownstone closed behind her with a muffled thud like a coffin lid. Clarice's heart soared. She could smell and taste her quarry.


	4. The journey

**Chapter 4     The journey**

Where Clarice discovers that she may be a natural traveller

(I think I'm finally getting the hang of all this editing and chapter management thingy!)

The characters Dr. Hannibal Lecter, Clarice Starling, and other characters contained in these posts were created by Thomas Harris. They are used herein without permission, but in the spirit of admiration and respect. No infringement of copyright is intended, and no profit, of any kind, is made by the maintainer, creators or contributors to this site.

The flight was delayed leaving Boston and she missed her connection in Frankfurt.  Clarice had been travelling for 32 hours by the time she reached Warsaw.  Mr Lewandowska was holding her name up on a stiff white card with a small stars and stripes flag attached.  He was small, compact, and rotund with limited English, which he made up for with large gestures.  He loved his vodka and carried some in a silver hip flask. He was very light on his feet, despite his bulk and the alcohol seemed to have no discernible effect that Clarice could see.  He made a big fuss about getting a porter to manage her baggage and to load up his creaking Lada.  He tut tutted sympathetically over the flight delays and agitated at the hotel insisting on a better room for her.  He left her at her door with a light kiss on her hand and promises of sight seeing in the morning before they caught the train to Zarasai.  He was unable to give Clarice any information about the client – all he had was the address.

As an insurance policy, Clarice had called her Interpol contacts before she left the USA.  One had resigned and moved to Corsica, the other was on leave.  Clarice simply viewed this as the fates levelling the playing field – she had lucked out with Mr Sowerby, now the balance was being adjusted.

She had also contacted the genealogy people before leaving and they had given her the name of someone in Warsaw who might be able to help her.  Mr Lewandowska whisked the piece of paper from her hand with comments regarding more knowledgeable and better people that he knew personally who would deliver what she needed at half the price.  Clarice was too tired to argue.

The hotel was the Sheraton Towers – a five star establishment according to Mr Lewandowska. All big hotels looked the same to Clarice.  She was just relieved that the bed was larger, and more comfortable than usual.

Clarice had ordered a room service breakfast.  It came on a crisp white tablecloth with a similar sized napkin and a single red rose in a slender glass.

Mr Lewandowska was waiting for her in the lobby, sweating profusely and looking very troubled.  His mother had been taken ill, he would be unable to accompany her to Zarasai but he had written out an itinerary in minute detail for Clarice to follow.  Clarice, alert to any hint of a fabricated story line could detect no dissembling in his manner. Mr Lewandowska was clearly stricken with remorse and embarrassment.  Clarice had her work cut out reassuring him that she would be fine.  He insisted on making up for his lack of hospitality by giving her a lift to the more upmarket shopping area in Warsaw, at Clarice's request.  With profuse apologies, Mr Lewandoska left her to it.  

There were a couple of spectacular jewellery shops but the one that really caught Clarice's eye sold only silk, satin and lace.  The window of this shop had curved glass with an elaborately carved wooden surround.  The carpet inside was burgundy and impossibly thick.  The assistants were all women over the age of 50, expert and discreet.  The perfume that filled the air was voluptuously expensive.  Clarice had a sudden impulse – here she was a total stranger in an alien society, she wanted to do something completely foreign to her nature.  She spent a contented hour and a half trying on and being properly fitted for a silk chemise, full-length nightdress with three quarter sleeves and a deep décolletage and lace and silk briefs and brassiere.  She had never been properly "fitted" for a brassiere before and had to admire the measuring precision and care lavished on her by the two matrons who served her.  Clarices's purchases were all in cream silk and were wrapped in the flimsiest cream and burgundy tissue paper and then laid almost reverentially into thin but stout lacquered cardboard boxes.  As Clarice left the shop she heard the Protestant whisper imprecations behind her shoulder but she shrugged him off.  'I'm on vacation.  Go to hell'

The journey was long and tedious.  Mr Lewandowska had booked her on an overnight sleeper to Vilnius.  The train reeked of old cigarette smoke, in fact everyone seemed to smoke, so Clarice was relieved that she had her own sleeping compartment.  She stared into the darkness and thought it all out, again.  

Clarice felt herself adrift on an unknown sea in a very small boat.  She was apprehensive.  He had admitted something to her.  By her taking this bait, he might fundamentally misinterpret why she was there.  She appreciated, too, that this could be her one and only ace in the hand – if his critical faculties were dulled, she would have a better chance of holding him until the 7th Cavalry arrived – at least, that was the general plan.

She started running old scenarios through her head. Would he be there to take delivery of the package? How easy was it going to be to enlist the help of the local police?  What would he say / she say when they met?  And then the most insinuating voice of all 'this has got nothing to do with Dr Lecter – the client is a stranger.  You're suffering from a terminal case of wish fulfilment'

These conversational scenarios inevitably led her into territory she really didn't want to traverse – re runs of his comments to Barney on the tapes.  Clarice was not given to navel gazing so hearing truths about herself always came as a shock.

'Let us hope, Barney, that both Agent Starlings parents were not deep rollers'

"What the hell was wrong with being an uncompromising individual?"

'Because beliefs, by their nature, may be based on false assumptions '

"Suppose you find your beliefs and values work pretty well for you?"

'Circumstances change, assumptions fail, people's beliefs change.  To survive and prosper you have to be alert to these alterations.  You have to step back from time to time so that you may distinguish the wood from the trees.  Anyway, they patently didn't work for you Clarice.  You were rejected by the Institution in which you invested your moral beliefs.'

Clarice found she kept losing these arguments, so she focused on the facts.  What he had done and in particular what he had done to Paul Krendler.

Then the big embarrassing question – why hadn't she said "stop", plain and simple?  Drug induced confusion seemed, in retrospect, a poor excuse.  "Stop…"  aah there it was, staring at her with big reproachful eyes, her pride.  She vowed in the orphanage, that she would plead to no man for anything.  But if she had?  Would Paul still be alive now? – who could tell ?.

'Don't beat yourself to death Clarice.  It's not good for your self esteem'

Clarice slept fitfully.  There was a 2 hour stop at the Belarus border while the customs people and the border guards tramped all over the train.  Clarice had her papers checked. The guard looked over them slowly and minutely and gave her a long, challenging look, daring her to blink first.  Clarice didn't oblige 

"Fucked if I'm going to kowtow to a zero with a machine pistol."  

Finally, he carefully spat onto the corridor floor and handed back her papers.  He purposely hung onto them until Clarice threatened to close the sleeper door on his hand.  Sitting back on the bunk bed she chided herself for being so aggressive – guaranteed to irritate minor functionaries.  She was concerned that he would come back with one of his superiors and go through her luggage.  She didn't think the customs papers she had with her would satisfy them.  She looked for somewhere to hide the package.  Taking the necklace out of its case, she put it around her own neck and placed a sweater over her pyjamas.  The necklace was heavy but lay comfortably over her collarbones and breasts.  It felt like chain mail.  Clarice stole a look in the mirror over the stainless steel sink.  The rubies glowed very red in the light over the mirror – like thorn pricks in her white skin. 

The guards didn't return.

At 6 in the morning the sleeping car attendant tapped on her door and offered her some black, sweet tea and a stale croissant with butter and cherry jam on a dented silver tray.

They had to change to a narrow gauge railway for the last part of the journey.  This was the most interesting part of the trip for Clarice as it was sunny and she could see the countryside.  Mainly flat but with large stands of conifer forest interspersed with silver birch and broad fields and lakes with very still, smooth water.  This was a stopping train so Clarice got to see plenty of life as well – farm workers, old ladies with thick black stockings, worn leather boots and head scarves.  

About an hour into the journey, 3 young men got onto the train carrying bottles of spirits in their jacket pockets and smoking.  They occupied one of the bench seats across the aisle from Clarice.  They studied her with aggressive curiosity.

It was obvious from her clothes and her luggage that she was a foreigner.  Clarice really wasn't interested in entering into any sort of conversation with them, signed or spoken.  They tried getting her attention by offering her a cigarette and when that failed resorted to loud jokes, more drinking and trips up and down the carriage to study her from different angles.  

The most aggressive of the three, a guy with collar length greased back hair, 2 days worth of stubble and a worn black leather jacket began blowing cigarette smoke in her direction while examining her in minute detail from head to toe.  Clarice had given up being retiring in male company, many years ago and returned his gaze unflinchingly.  He appeared to take this as an invitation or an insult, as he slid over the aisle to sit opposite Clarice, all the better to see her.  Clarice chose to ignore him, put in her CD earplugs and closed her eyes.  He flicked his half smoked cigarette at Clarice, spat at her feet and put his feet up on the seat next to her.  She heard his friends snicker as he started a running commentary.  After 10 minutes or so, they lost interest and started a game of cards. 

Clarice was beginning to feel dizzy with fatigue and short of both patience and resilience.

They finally reached Zarasai at 11 in the morning.  With some gesturing and play-acting she was able to persuade the stationmaster to get her a taxi for the last part of the journey to her destination – a village about an hour and a half away. 

The taxi deposited her at an Inn in a village of about 40 houses, 1 church and a post office with general store.  The buildings were a mix of all stone construction or timber with steeply raked, metal clad roofs.  Clarice saw one house that looked like something out of Dr Zhivago but all the others displayed their frugality with small windows and doors opening directly onto the street.

The innkeeper and his wife spoke no English but had big smiles.

The landlady carried Clarice's bags up to her bedroom giving a running commentary to Clarice, over her shoulder, in Lithuanian all the way up the stairs.  Two children, a boy and a girl of about 4 and 6 peeped through the banisters at Clarice as she climbed and then peered through the crack of the door hinge as the landlady showed Clarice round her room.  There was a cracked enamel sink with worn chrome taps, a deep double bed with 3 stacked feather pillows and a goose down duvet.  The bedroom was right under the roof, so the ceiling consisted of sloping wooden beams and there was one small window with checked gingham curtains.

Clarice thanked her hostess, wearily, managed a wink at the children which sent them into giggles and then indicated on her watch that she would like to sleep until the evening.  The landlady nodded sympathetically, shooed the children away and softly shut the door.  Clarice fell onto the duvet and surrendered herself to sleep.

She dreamt she was floating on a lake in a small boat.  She was cold and there was a mist over the surface of the water, obscuring her view.  She could just make out a darker shadow in one direction.  The darkness became more solid and transformed into an island with some rocky outcrops and pine trees.  There was a figure standing on the beach, quite still.  She knew who it was.  A moth touched her cheek.  She woke with a start.  The landlady was stooping over the bedside table with a large cup of black tea.  

Clarice realised that she hadn't eaten or drunk since the breakfast on the sleeper.  She drank the tea quickly.  The landlady indicated that they had a bath, ready for her, down the corridor.  Clarice quickly unpacked and changing into a cotton bathrobe she carried a large rough bath towel and her military style sponge bag into the steaming bathroom.  The floor was tiled and freezing cold.  The bath stood in the middle of the room on large clawed feet.  There were worn chrome taps and green copper stains on the worn enamel where the taps constantly dripped.  However, the water was hot and her hosts had gone to the trouble of sprinkling fresh lavender into the water.  

Clarice lowered herself gratefully into the water.  She had always preferred baths to showers – appealed to the sybaritic side of her personality, she guessed.  After the debacle by the Chesapeake, that was the other way she had spent the first week - 1 or 2 hours a day – soaking in scented, oiled water, trying to doze and make up for the restless nights.   

Increasingly, she had found herself thinking about what could have been, how her life had panned out and why.  This had been a frustrating exercise, going over old battles, old arguments, old mistakes and finally, what had happened in Paul's house.  She ran over other things she could have said, to play for time.  The shock of the kiss – as uncompromising and direct as a punch.  Why hadn't she responded? - would have gained some time there.  But she knew why.  It would have been a lie, a stratagem.  She chewed her lips.  She always chewed her lips when she replayed that particular tape.  

And then the tear.  As the cuffs ratcheted shut she remembered the first time she had seen her Pa kill a deer.  She had been about 7.  She had watched this magnificent animal with the great head and antlers struggle to stay upright and then finally collapse.  She had cried herself to sleep that night with her head buried in her pillow.  Then the blood.  

She didn't remember the actual blow, so she must have passed out, momentarily.  The tug of her hair brought her round. The butchers block, the side of the fridge, the floor, everything, was covered in blood.  Dr Lecter was over by the stove.  She could smell the haem and burning flesh.  She had reached for the cleaver embedded in the block and inserted the edge of it into the crack of the door by the handle and had levered on it.  She had slipped in the blood.  That's when he looked at her.  His eyes were icy.  

Her chief memory was the chill of his body when she unhitched his belt to wrap it around his forearm.  The next moment, he was gone.  Clarice remembered it as a nightmare.  In fact she wasn't even sure it had happened, which was one reason why it hadn't appeared in her statement.

With the scent of the lavender she dozed.  Her eyes snapped open with the sound of very softly creaking boards in the corridor. Clarice was instantly alert.  She recognised that she was still not properly rested because her movements as she came upright in the bath, were not smooth or particularly well controlled.  She groped for her towel on the floor.  If it had been the children she would have expected much clumsier movements, and some whispers.  These were acutely measured, soft and slow steps.  

Clarice watched the enamel doorknob.  No movement, but she could see a shadow under the doorframe.  It was still.  All she could hear was the dripping of the taps.  The door was locked but Clarice still felt vulnerable.  Who was listening and why?

After about a minute the shadow moved and the creaking receded.  

Clarice was out of the bath in an instant, robe roughly tied around her middle, she flung open the door and surveyed the corridor in one sweeping glance.  There was a large, imperious looking Persian cat with its back arched, outside her bedroom door.  It stared at Clarice with ice green eyes.  Clarice leaned against the door jam and blew out a long breath.  "God I must be tired to be spooked so easily."

She dressed sketchily and descended the two flights of stairs to the main bar, with the Persian keeping her company.

The landlord was there and five customers, two of them playing chess another two chequers and the fifth leaning on the bar, calmly smoking a pipe.  They were clearly all expecting her to appear as they all sprang to their feet when she reached the last step of the stairs and each in turn greeted her and bowed, all beaming.  Clarice guessed that foreign visitors must be as rare as hens' teeth in this neck of the woods and that this was the official vetting and welcoming party from the village.  They were clearly all patriarchs.  The landlord hurried forward and drew Clarice towards the man now standing by the bar.  He was neatly built with laugh lines around his eyes and neat grey hair.  Clarice judged him to be about 60 or so.  He was dressed in a priest's full-length coat.  He gave Clarice a not unwelcoming but very appraising look and then addressed her in heavily accented English. 

"Welcome to Liepel Mademoiselle …. ?"

"Clarice Starling.  A small pause "I'm here to get a signature on some legal papers."

"They must be very important if you came all the way from the USA."

Clarice smiled non-commitally.

"My pardon, may I introduce myself.  I am Father Geremek Priest to the flock in this village" He then proceeded to formally introduce Clarice to the other men in the bar.  She remembered none of their names, only that they all very easily and graciously kissed her hand as they were announced.

The landlord busied himself with setting a table for Clarice.  Surrounded by this newly discovered chivalry, she felt duty bound to invite Father Geremek to join her.  He indicated that he would just take a little wine with her.

Clarice was served a richly coloured but exquisitely smooth borscht with a dollop of sour cream spun in the middle of the pool of imperial purple liquid.  The bread was a dense brown rye bread with a slightly bitter flavour with almost white butter smeared on top.  Clarice sipped appreciatively.  The wine was a full-blooded merlot.  "Black market" Father Geremek winked at her "From Bulgaria, their wines are very good and much cheaper than any French or German wines that we can get here.  The Common Market hasn't reached us, yet"

The other men continued with their board games but occasionally glanced at Clarice and the Priest.  Father Geremek quizzed Clarice about her journey and sympathised with her over the vagaries of international travel.  The landlord's children then brought in, with elaborate care, a plate of pork chops with roughly chopped and fried potatoes and sweetened red cabbage, shredded and cooked with apples and raisins.  Clarice realised that she was ravenous, and to everyone's satisfaction, cleared her plate.

"Travelling can be very wearing," remarked Father Geremek " I hope you find the accommodation here comfortable.  We are a long way from any city"

Clarice reassured him and then asked the question uppermost in her mind  "Is there a public telephone in the village?"

Father Geremek looked surprised  "Yes there is, at the post office – you don't have a mobile phone with you?

"Yes I do, but I forgot to buy a charger that would fit the electricity supply here.  The phone I have needs charging"

"Aah, I see.  Don't worry; one of our local entrepreneurs would be more than happy to assist you with one.  May I ask him to call on you tomorrow?"

"Thank you Father but I may be gone before tomorrow evening – I only have to deliver these papers"

"I'm very sorry to hear that Ms Starling.  As you will have guessed from our receiving committee"  - here Father Geremek surveyed the room  "we have international visitors very rarely – this is a cause for much excitement in the village, you understand"

Clarice smiled gently "I'm very flattered Father and I really don't wish to be rude, but my boss wants me back at my desk by Friday at the latest and if my trip here was anything to go by, I will need at least 2 days for the return journey"

"Of course, Ms Starling.  If you have some time tomorrow, please call on the church.  We have a very fine medieval font – hidden from the Germans and the Russians down a well until it was reinstalled last year and also some very fine murals, again hidden behind a false wall during our most recent Russian occupation."

"You speak very good English"

"Thank you.  It was a requirement in the seminary I attended.  It is now a very useful language to have – the language of commerce.  Lithuania as an independent country is very eager to open its markets, so all the children in the village speak a little even if it's only words to do with football" Father Geremek said this with some pride

On an impulse, Clarice pulled out the address from her pants pocket.  "I am supposed to deliver the papers to this address tomorrow. Is it far away?"

Father Geremek glanced at the now rather crumpled piece of paper.  Clarice's impression was that a shutter had come down.  "No, not very far away.  About half an hour by car.  The house is owned by a local family, but is being rented at the moment.  I know very little about the tenant.  He doesn't come to mass." Clarice's pulse quickened.

"Thank you.  I have very little information about this person – it would be kinda nice to know a little more"

Father Geremek smiled blankly.  "He has not been there very long and I don't believe any of us here have seen very much of him.  He drives a Range Rover.  I don't even know how long he will be staying.  I'm sorry I can't be more helpful.  We do have a local taxi driver who will be happy to take you there tomorrow" Father Geremek smiled again at Clarice.  His lips were closed.

The only sound was the clacking of the counters from the chequers board.  The bar suddenly felt very oppressive.

Clarice excused herself, claiming jet lag.  The men all sprang to their feet again as she left and wished her good night.  Back in her room, she flung the window open.  The air was cold enough to slap her awake, immediately.  There was no moon that she could see.  She could just make out Vega and Deneb.  After 10 minutes or so she could see, too, that it was dark enough here to see the Milky Way.  

The priest's reaction to her question had made her uneasy.  "Paranoia killed the cat," she chided herself.  She still felt jumpy even after the meal and the wine "For Christ's sake pull yourself together, Clarice.  Tomorrow I will check out the telephone at the post office and then…..  Clarice's mind shied away from the next scenario.  "I need to think about it tomorrow, when my brain is clear" She slipped the package under her pillow.

To get herself to sleep she ran through one of the tapes, in her mind.  Dr Lecter had been talking to Barney, in general terms about pain.

"Some people use distraction.  Some people respond with aggression.  Some people buckle and others freeze.  Agent Starling would fight, if she were allowed.  Unfortunately, "being allowed" is one of Agent Starling's limiters.  She hasn't discovered yet that she can give herself permission."

It wasn't so much the words, but the cadence and harmonics in the voice that lulled her to sleep.


	5. The delivery

Chapter 5      The Delivery

All good things to those who persevere. They meet 

The characters Dr. Hannibal Lecter and Clarice Starling, contained herein were created by Thomas Harris. They are used herein without permission, but in the spirit of admiration and respect. No infringement of copyright is intended, and no profit, of any kind, is made by the maintainer, creators or contributors to this site.

The landlady woke her in the morning with another huge cup of tea and indicated that the bath was ready for her.  Clarice felt marginally better this morning.  She was too hyped up to soak in the bath and simply soaped herself and rinsed off very quickly. 

She spent a full half hour getting dressed.  Fine chinos, the most expensive leather boots she had ever bought, a plain linen shirt from Brooks Brothers a plain navy jacket and small pearl ear rings that Ardelia had given to her at graduation.  She surveyed herself as best she could in the cracked half-length mirror over the sideboard in her room.  She felt comfortable and at ease and almost ready for anything.  She checked the leather pouch and her leather shoulder bag and went down for breakfast in the bar. 

She indicated that she wanted to make a telephone call.  The landlady's face fell.  After a great deal of pantomime Clarice got the message that the phones simply weren't working today. Clarice cursed again and then accepted what she felt now, must be inevitable.

Showing her hostess the paper with the address seemed to be enough to conjure up a taxi after she had finished her breakfast.  Clarice began to warm to the landlady – her name was Mrs. Minkowski, as far as Clarice could work out and she had black, intelligent eyes – observant, active and sharp.  

She gave Clarice a very quizzical look when the taxi arrived and a rather tentative wave as she drove off.****

Pytor the taxi driver had an old, well-used Mercedes.  He chewed tobacco continuously, occasionally spitting out of the window.  He wore the regulation taxi driver's black leather jacket with baggy elbows.  His hand covered in coarse black hairs rested casually over the steering wheel.  He seemed efficient and pleasant.  He held the door open for Clarice to climb into the back seat and they set off to the east along a two lane metalled road.  He sang to himself quietly in a resonating baritone –folk songs rather than recycled rock.  Occasionally he pointed to the right and left and said a name – "Radziwill", "Lubienka".  He would turn and smile at Clarice as he did this and she decided he was naming the local family estates for her benefit.  She was relieved to be able to lay her head on a firm leather headrest.  Her vision kept shifting.  'chronic fatigue' she thought or maybe it had something to do with her rising pulse rate.

The countryside was open and rolling planted with what looked like wheat, barley, and open pasture.  There were stands of maple and silver birch and poplar dividing some of the fields with areas of dense conifer plantations in between.  Clarice saw a few dairy cattle and dark wooden barns.  It looked almost alpine.

After half an hour they turned off down a dusty track and arrived at an avenue of tall birch trees – grey and silver.  Rounding a bend they suddenly came upon a substantial two-storey house.  Stone walls for the lower half and timber clad in the upper with a steeply raked wood shake roof, three sets of stone chimneys and heavy wooden window shutters, all open. The windows were dark.  There was an impressive wooden porch with heavy, simply carved oak pillars to support it and an impressive polished oak door with quite elaborate brass fittings, all gleaming. Lightening the generally heavy air there were large terra cotta pots and cow troughs filled with geraniums, rosemary and lavender and large window boxes filled with red, yellow and orange nasturtiums backed by clouds of gypsophila.  Clarice thought it looked like a well-appointed inn.  The house appeared to be surrounded on three sides by a mature conifer plantation.

The fine yellow dust settled on the paintwork as Pytor got out of the car and opened the door for Clarice.  Clarice's stomach contracted as she stepped out of the Merc.  He energetically applied the brass doorknocker in the shape of a boar's head against its well-worn plate on the front door.  They waited 3 or 4 minutes and then mumbling to himself Pytor stepped back to survey the house and shrugged.  There was clearly someone around as there was a set of boots on the granite doorstep by a heavy iron foot scraper.

The driver and Clarice, by mutual consent walked round the house in opposite directions.  There was a well weeded pebble path all around the outside of the house.  The wood cladding creaked in the heat.  Clarice rounded her corner to see, surprisingly a well tended and very neatly laid out kitchen garden. Beyond that she could see an open paddock filled with wild flowers extending to the conifers about 300 metres away.  To one side the pebbled path continued to a group of outhouses and barns again all substantially built in stone and wood cladding for the upper parts and the roofs.  Clarice made for what looked like a large double garage – large sliding doors and single storey.  

The doors were partly open.  Clarice knocked before sliding them a little further apart silently and with ease on well oiled runners.  Inside, there was a Range Rover with dry mud spattered over the rear of the vehicle and heavily around the wheel arches.  It was covered in a fine layer of dust.  The hood was cold.  Clarice peered through the window on the driver's side and her heart leaped.  

On the steering wheel was an ebony ball clipped to the rim.  Clarice remembered seeing one on a TV programme about rallying in Sweden.  It allowed the driver to steer with one hand while changing gear with the other.  This Range Rover had an automatic transmission.  Clarice instinctively spun round, crouched on the balls of her feet.  She could taste copper again. There was no one there.  Her heart rate settled.  She surveyed the rest of the garage. It was empty of vehicles but filled with some high quality power tools and an impressively heavy workbench.  There was a fixed circular saw, well oiled with no rust, a fixed drill and the hand tools over the bench were ordered neatly in racks and boxes.  The ones Clarice picked out were sharp.

Clarice turned to leave the garage and standing there, silhouetted in the light was a tall elegant dog.  An Irish wolfhound Clarice guessed.  One paw was raised as the animal surveyed Clarice.  She stood stock still and then slowly took a step forward.  The dog lowered its head and growled.  Clarice heard a murmured command from outside and the dog moved backwards.  Clarice took a couple more slow steps out into the bright sunlight, blinked and looked to her right, shading her eyes.  

Dr Lecter was standing there with another wolfhound at his heels.  There was a shotgun balanced over his left arm.  He stood stock still and stared at her.  

Her first thought was "He wasn't expecting me."  Momentarily she felt exultant. 

He had heard the taxi and had caught her scent as he walked across the paddock.  

Father Geremek had called him last night and warned him that an American lady was in the village and due to visit him the next day.  Two questions and Dr Lecter confirmed that it was Clarice Starling.  After the initial perturbations, he had slept well. 

Despite his mental preparation there was still an electric shock at seeing her.  He was hyper alert.  He could detect no other bodies in the vicinity other than Pytor, no sound of rotor blades in the distance.  The dogs were calm.  Clarice was aware of being examined minutely.  The sun was very bright and in her eyes so she couldn't gauge his expression.  She felt as she did the moment before the door got kicked in on dawn raids.

Finally, "Good afternoon Clarice.  I hope Tambur didn't alarm you"  

Clarice's mouth had gone dry.  She was saved from answering by Pytor appearing and calling from the other side of the paddock.  Dr. Lecter turned rapidly and greeted him in Lithuanian with what Clarice judged to be a warm welcome and a joke, as they both laughed.  He came up and shook Dr Lecter's hand.  A brief conversation and then he tipped his cap to Clarice and jogged back around the house.  Clarice watched his retreating back with dismay.

Dr Lecter smiled apologetically at Clarice.  "Pytor has a previous engagement but will be back to pick you up in an hour or so. He visits his mistress in the next village every Tuesday afternoon.  You must be very tired after a long journey.  May I offer you a little old European hospitality – lemonade – home made?"  Dr Lecter smiled then.  This time she could see his face. His eyes were gleaming.  "Yes, thank you."  Keep cool, she thought.  This isn't as surreal as it seems. Dr Lecter invited her to accompany him to the rear entrance of the house.  There was a large verandah extending almost the full length of the house with a bay reaching out into the paddock.  The supports for the verandah were covered in honeysuckle, and climbing roses.  

"It looks best in the late spring.  The honey suckle flowers all summer so I still get some scent at night."  The dogs peeled away onto the verandah and settled themselves in the shade.  Dr Lecter led her into a compact anteroom which was clearly an old gunroom.  Racks on the walls.  Tall gun cupboards some with glass fronts, a large table with cleaning rods, cloths, wool and oil laid out ready.  He laid the shotgun carefully on a rack and removed the leather game bag from his shoulder with his right hand  "A couple of pigeons today – poor sport."  He stared at Clarice once more and then indicated the heavy door.  

This led into the next room - a large kitchen with a stone flagged floor around a blacked range and well-worn polished oak floor for the rest.  Huge pine dressers with blue and white china on view, copper pans hanging above the range and a large oak table in the middle of the room.  Dr Lecter approached a 6 foot stainless steel fridge – the only modern appliance that Clarice could see in the kitchen.  "Living in America kills the pioneer spirit, I am afraid.  This was my first purchase when I arrived here."  He gave her a small mischievous smile.  

He reached into the gleaming white interior and removed a cranberry cut glass jug filled with lemonade.  "This however, belonged to my family – buried in our ice house in the woods when the war started and fortunately never found and looted as was everything else.  Could I trouble you to reach for two glasses from the dresser behind you?  Thank you."  Clarice placed two matching glass tumblers on the oak table.  It was then that she brought herself to stare at his left arm.  There was a matt black leather glove covering a well fashioned but immobile false hand with partly bent fingers.  Dr Lecter saw the direction of her eyes.  

"We are fortunate in this part of the world – many skilled cabinet makers" he paused "and lots of spare wood " his eyes danced.  Clarice was instantly off balance.  

She realised she was very thirsty.  The lemonade was cold, sharp and intensely refreshing.  Desperate to regain her footing she took the initiative.  "I am carrying a package for you from Mr Montefiore in Boston"

"Aaah. I see" Dr Lecter looked at her intently over the top of his glass  "May I ask, are you alone?"  

"Yes."  The answer was instinctive

The Doctor gave Clarice a smile.  "Clarice Starling.  Intrepid big game hunter"

"I think they were glad to see the back of you Dr Lecter and no, I'm not on any sort of retainer or bounty arrangement with the FBI or anyone else"

Dr Lecter took another sip of his lemonade while he studied her again.  "Not surely, employed by DHL?" he said mockingly.

"No.  I work for a private security firm in Boston, right now.  Discreet, personal service.  No job too small " Clarice couldn't keep the sarcasm out of her voice. She placed her bag on the table and unbuckled it cleanly – no fumbling she noticed with pleasure.  Out came the zipped leather pouch and she slid it across the table to Dr Lecter.  He stared at it for a moment and took another sip of lemonade.  "Please come through.  The light is better in the salon"

He led her out of the kitchen into a corridor with a couple of rooms on either side with large doors with bevelled glass inserts.  Then into a hall with a central wooden staircase all in polished oak and a round mahogany table with a profusion of cut wild flowers set in brad silver bowl  and then through a set of double folding doors into a large room with windows facing East, North and South.  The blinds were half down but the room was still light.  There were heavy Turkish and Persian throw rugs on the floor and Clarice noticed a gleaming samovar on top of a traditional ceramic tiled stove in one corner.  The room smelled of honeysuckle and summer.  The sofas and chairs were either in rattan or looked heavy and inviting, covered in embroidered linen and full cushions all in cream, gold and burgundy.  

Dr. Lecter invited Clarice to sit in one of the full easy chairs opposite a low table of highly polished almost, black wood.  He tapped the table  "Looted, I think from a castle belonging to a Teutonic knight by one of my bloodthirsty forbears."  Dr Lecter precisely unzipped the bag and removed the velvet case.  He ran his right hand over it, Clarice passed him the key and he slipped the catch.  As the lid opened he bent down swiftly and inhaled deeply.  His head remained bent and he stayed perfectly still.  Clarice could see the jewels blinking almost malevolently in the half-light almost the same colour as the sheen over his smooth black head.

"I have a photograph as well"

Dr Lecter looked up, startled.  Clarice was transfixed by the sight of his eyes pure black and shining.  She had to look away although she berated herself for bothering with finer feelings of embarrassment in front of this man.  She reached inside the bag again and withdrew the heavy card photo folder.  She slipped the elastic and opened it out in full view on the table.  She heard a sharp intake of breath.  Lecter slowly reached out for the photograph, staring at it unblinkingly.  Then he looked up.  "You must have searched hard and long for this Clarice"

"No, not particularly.  Mr Sowerby wasn't hard to find and lady luck made him a pack rat ".  "Is this your mother?"

"Yes"

"She looks like an uncompromising lady"

"Yes.  Sometimes."  He looked up.  "Takes one to know one."  His lips smiled but his eyes remained opaque.  "This was a formal photograph taken for my paternal Grandmother when the family was officially approached regarding the marriage.  The blood lines had to be approved by the matriarchs " He smiled with some irony.  Dr Lecter snapped the elastic shut over the cover.  He stared at the necklace again.  "Thank you for bringing these Clarice.  They have great value for me."  Dr Lecter leaned back languidly in his chair "Now … what do you require from me in return?"  It almost sounded as if he was asking the question of himself.  His eyes were expressionless.  

The pain after their last meeting both physical, and otherwise, had been memorable. The first of any sort that he had felt for years.  It was like someone throwing the shutters open in a darkened room.  As the cleaver had come down and skin and bone had split, he had slammed shut the gates in his brain stem, and found himself reciting:

"The ulnar artery lies between the superficial and the main part of the flexor retinaculum. The radial artery reaches the dorsal aspect of the carpus by passing between the lateral ligament of the wrist and the tendons of the Abductor pollicis longus and the Extensor pollicis brevis…"

Since then he had been marking time, hoping that some judicious physical and intellectual activity would work as well as any analgesic, if he was patient.  

His intellect told him that she wasn't here because of a change of heart or simply by accident – she had been looking for him because she wanted something from him.  

That other part of his mind began to whisper.

Clarice was nonplussed for a second.  Her original, only hazily thought out plan – finding him, calling Interpol, was stymied until she could reach a phone and an English speaking operator.  She could do nothing safely until the driver returned.  Then inspiration struck.

She said quite coolly, proud of her self possession "Lunch maybe?"


	6. Breaking bread

Chapter 6      Breaking bread

Conversations commence

The characters Dr. Hannibal Lecter and Clarice Starling, contained herein were created by Thomas Harris. They are used without permission, but in the spirit of admiration and respect. No infringement of copyright is intended, and no profit, of any kind, is made by the maintainer, creators or contributors to this site.

Dr Lecter looked at her and then gave her a smile.  "Of course.  Will salmon trout be acceptable? – it is caught locally and is very fresh, with some potatoes and vegetables – all guaranteed to be less than 24 hours out of the ground?"  Clarice could see the enthusiasm even under the patina and it was almost infectious.  "Perhaps you would like to look around the house and grounds while I prepare the meal – it will take about half an hour" He gave Clarice a quick resume of the layout of the house and then disappeared into the kitchen.

Clarice explored the second floor first of all.  There were five rooms that had either been bedrooms or parlours and one that clearly had been a nursery, judging from the wallpaper on the walls.  There were 3 bathrooms with chrome fittings "Villeroy and Boch"  Clarice read on one of the 6 inch chrome showerheads.  

She spent a full ten minutes in Dr Lecter's bedroom.  There were Persian rugs on the floor, as in the salon.  A large four poster bed in carved oak and maple with red and cream damask hangings. There was a very old linen chest at the base of the bed with a relatively crude carving of what looked like a siege outside a castle all in blackened oak, the wood was beginning to split on the panels.  The bed linen was finest Egyptian cotton with a voluminous goose down duvet and pillows.  The pillowcases had fine crochet edgings down one side – a border about 6 inches wide.  All snowy white, crisply starched and smelling of fresh air.  There was a broad inlaid mahogany dressing table at an angle to the window with a fine lace mat, a simple tilting mirror and three heavy silver backed hairbrushes.  

"Old habits die hard" she smiled to herself as she turned the brushes over.  Not a single hair or trace of flaked skin, on any of them.  She hesitated before opening the top right hand draw – white, cream, navy, purple and red silk handkerchiefs, all neatly ironed and folded.  The left hand top drawer a series of leather and silk gloves, all perfectly arranged.  She hesitated again.  What purpose did all this serve?  She had found him hadn't she? She simply had to mark time until she could get to a phone.  Just a brief look at his wardrobe.   She thought.  

Over to a set of folding doors with beautifully carved linen panelling.  Behind was a large walk in wardrobe.  Fifteen or so suits in wool, gaberdine, Barathea; pressed shirts on wooden hangers; shoes racked and polished  'Would grace a marine dorm' thought Clarice as she ran a finger over the nearest coat sleeve – silky smooth, almost instinctively she leaned forward and breathed in.  The smell of Armagnac, cigars, and the other scent she remembered from the kitchen on the Chesapeake.  She stepped back, startled, and quickly closed the doors.  

The bathroom was as spare and immaculate as the bedroom – silk slippers a thick smooth navy towelling bath robe.  The thickest white towels she had ever seen.  The basin and surround were all in blue veined marble with impeccably polished chrome taps.  There was a new electric toothbrush and floss in the half concealed cupboard behind speckled, bevelled glass panelling and an array of moisturisers, cleansers and aftershave all in cut glass bottles with silver tops, a cut throat razor and gleaming leather strop arrayed on the marble surround.  Clarice stared at this collection for a while and smiled before she shut the bedroom door and stepped into the main corridor again.  Down the sweep of the staircase she could hear music playing in the kitchen.  

She turned to the library.  Another heavy oak door with gleaming brass hinges and handles.  The door swung open silently and Clarice gasped.  This room had windows opening to the South and West and onto the verandah.  There were floor to ceiling bookshelves – about 8 foot high, and an open fireplace with logs laid ready.  There was a sliding ladder on two walls to allow access to the higher shelves.  The chairs were leather, old, a little saggy, well used.  There was a large sofa with a crushed green velvet throw draped over the scuffed leather.  The floor was polished oak.  A large desk in the corner with a laptop, closed, a large ink blotter, neatly stacked rough cut writing paper and a collection of glossy pen grips and nibs and two enormous glass inkwells carrying black and purple ink and an inclined calligraphy lectern.  There were two old library lamps to illuminate the desk.  

The room smelt of sun baked old leather, and books.  Clarice toured the shelves.  Everything from Astronomy to Euclidean geometry, medieval history to Italian poetry.  Some leather bound and a whole section of paperback Rough Guides to the major European cities and a complete Grove.  'No surprises here' she thought and turned towards the kitchen.  She found she had to take a deep breath before she could push the swing door open.  The music playing she recognised as **_"In vivi tyranno" from Handel's Rinaldo_ (a proscribed opera on her course)**

"Great music" she said, a little too brightly.  Dr Lecter, right sleeve rolled up to his elbow was swiftly and neatly loading finely chopped greens into a blender.  He looked at her surprised and then with a little sidelong glance said  "A victorious victim inviting his enemy to finish him off.  I can never decide whether he is mocking his protagonist or whether its just Italian posturing"

This was a piece Clarice knew.  She decided to try a little cultural recalibration on the Doctor.  "I assumed it was Handel making a heavy moral point for his audience"

Lecter paused and gave her a measured look.  "There speaketh an upholder of truth, justice and the American way"

Clarice was about to take offence at this strike until she looked at his eyes, which were suddenly genuinely merry.  This was an unexpected sight and she suddenly realised that he was trying to make a joke.  She had a strong feeling of being completely adrift.

"Some wine?  I have a very fine Riesling in the fridge"

"Thank you.  I'll get the glasses" She was glad to have something to do.  She felt very uncomfortable, particularly in this apparently mundane domestic setting.  She decided to remain icily polite, for the moment.  "The books in the library, were those saved in the ice house as well?"

A thin smile.  "No.  What you see there is a pathetic shadow of the library my family had in their original house"

"This house didn't belong to your family?"

"It was a house we had for guests.  The main house was destroyed in the war"  "You have peaked my curiosity, Clarice.  Since when have you become steeped in opera seria?"

"For the last year or so" Clarice replied shortly

Lecter looked at her over his wine glass.  "And what do you think of Mr Handel?"

"I still find some of his stuff too full of frills and such but other pieces … yeah … they have quite a kick"

"Such as?"

"The Dixit Dominus" 

Dr Lecter was about to throw out a comment along the lines of "the Lutherans would boil you in oil for that heresy" but he decided one flippant comment was enough for now and concentrated on the preparations for lunch – salmon trout baked in the oven with a watercress coulis, small new potatoes tossed in a frying pan in walnut oil and fine green beans, steamed for a minute or so.

Clarice watched fascinated.  The smooth movements, the occasional concentrated pause as he gathered his thoughts for the next step.  The dexterity and swiftness of his right hand.  The steadiness of his left arm.  Deadly beautiful to watch.

"I thought we should eat outside.  The mosquitoes won't attack en masse until the late afternoon"

Dr Lecter arranged the food with much precision on two large white plates.  The watercress coulis was an intense green against the fish and the smooth ceramic.  They each took their own plate and glass onto the verandah.  A round table had been laid with a heavy white linen tablecloth with napkins to match and silver fish knives and forks.  Clarice was feeling more and more displaced from reality.  She hesitated only a moment before starting to eat.  The flesh of the fish was full and soft in her mouth.  It had an intense flavour.  Her eyes opened in surprise.  Dr Lecter looked at her quizzically.  " Acceptable?"

Clarice felt constrained.  "Yes … pretty tasty for a girl raised on fried chicken and corn bread" She had reverted to a thick West Virginian drawl – she decided to allow him a smile.  Dr Lecter smiled back  "Good.  More wine?"  This too, was the finest Clarice had ever tasted.  Cool and crisp with flavours, one after another slipping over her tongue and down her throat, which she had no means of describing.

He seemed completely at ease with what Clarice felt, was a completely incongruous situation.  "Are you staying at the Inn?  I think Barbara and Tadeusz are very welcoming hosts "

"Yes they are. Especially Barbara. She arranged the taxi for me" Clarice was trying to sound nonchalant, but she could hear the stilted phrases.  Her throat kept contracting.  "Did you train the dogs yourself?" She could have kicked herself – as clumsy a segue as well … the other one.

Dr Lecter looked at her enigmatically.  "I'm not sure I should share that information with you, Clarice"

"I'm here on my own Dr Lecter.  Not carrying a wire, or a sidearm or anything"

"No, just carrying that fire and ice in your belly Clarice."  He paused and looked at her for a long moment.  At the Chesapeake he had been bent on fracturing the icy surface, desperate to puncture that rubber nub of stubbornness.  He had found regret to be a useless emotion, many years ago, so the loss of his hand he judged to be a simple practical challenge.  The glove he viewed as a badge of honour – a battle scar.

Despite her flat reply to him at the time, he had, in due course, regarded their truncated meeting as simply a skirmish in a much longer, more protracted campaign.

He had been planning to call on her anyway.  He was delighted, partly because he knew her motivations in being here were opaque, even to her.  She was clearly uneasy.  There was a chink in the armour.

He recognised that he was vulnerable too and that displaying this would be one of the more persuasive weapons he had at his disposal. 

Looking at her now, tired, preoccupied, uncomfortable, he found himself minutely observing every gesture, frown, smile.  It wasn't just the curve of her breast under her shirt or the fire in her hair or the line of her neck but her movements, her demeanour, how she strung her words together.  There was much poetry that he had read with which he had never fully engaged, although he had admired it for its construction and rhythm.  "So this is what it is like" he thought.

He had noticed the first physical symptoms in Florence.  These sensations had coincided with (for him) a disturbing change in his musical tastes.  He found himself listening to a concert performance of **_Gluck's Orfeo et Eurydice _**and enjoying it, or at least observing a change in his normally equable physiological state.

Initially it had been a shock to realise that he was no longer an objective, fascinated but remote observer of Clarice Starling.  

He knew a healthy obsession when he saw one.  As with all new sensations, he embraced it.  He had never lacked courage.  He had, after all, been through a conflagration, as a child and had survived.  He knew his life was charmed in some way.

The intoxication was delicious.  His objective here was to keep her around, amused and interested for as long as he could and then … who knows? 

"It really is a very great pleasure to see you again Clarice" He said this quite calmly.  Clarice flushed.  This reaction startled her.  The Doctor saved her from trying to scrabble for a reply.

"Tell me more about this interest in Handel "

Clarice was relieved to have something concrete to talk about.  He seemed genuinely interested with her account of her 'education' and questioned her minutely about the course and what music she enjoyed most and why.  "And what prompted such avid study?"  Clarice looked him straight in the eye – "Why, … to catch you Dr Lecter."  He smiled  "I'm flattered Clarice.  I should perhaps warn you, however, that I am on home ground here.  I think you will find it quite difficult to enlist any help for your grand design" He sounded quite smug.

Clarice turned away to look at the pine forest.  "Where there's a will there's a bribe" Lecter smiled to himself.  

"Careful Clarice, all that cynicism may tarnish your very shiny armour" Before Clarice could come up with a suitably acid retort Lecter interjected "Dessert? – blackberries and home made bread ice cream" Clarice had never had bread ice cream.  She didn't want to appear churlish by refusing and anyway, she had got into the habit when eating out in Boston, of trying anything.  She helped him take the dishes and glasses back to the kitchen.  The music playing in the kitchen now she recognised as **_Mozart - from Cosi fan tutte "Soave sia il vento"_**

"So you enjoy Mozart as well ?" Dr Lecter looked at her askance as he generously scattered fresh blackberries onto the scooped ice cream.

Clarice was feeling a little more relaxed – 'must be the wine' she thought.  'Lets try being expansive – it all feels like a bad dream, anyway'

"Yeaah.  We had two assignments for this opera.  It grew on me."  She paused "I liked the way the two girls were so different.  I liked the big question at the end.  It was interesting the way it could be played as a comedy or much darker.  I liked the ambiguity of Don Alfonso – was he just bored, or did he want to teach these people a lesson, was he just a dedicated manipulator or an early Frankenstein conducting an experiment or what?"  Clarice stopped short.  She realised her enthusiasm had got the better of her.  'No more alcohol this afternoon' said the stern Protestant.  Lecter had stopped what he had been doing and was studying her intently.  Clarice felt discomfited.

"Brava Clarice" The smile he gave her appeared genuine.  Clarice, with a jolt, realised she was basking in it.

"I'm getting real hungry to try the ice cream"

"Of course.  Let us continue on the verandah"

The ice cream was thick, almost chewy with a full nutty flavour.  The blackberries were large, full and each one tasted different.  Clarice was transfixed by the different flavours and textures.

"So which recordings have you listened to?"  enquired Dr.

Lecter**__**

**_"_**Bohm with Schwarkopf "

"You should try the EMI Rattle recording if you are interested in Don Alfonso as a character - Thomas Allen has an interesting take on it."

In spite of Clarice's unease, they talked easily for another half hour about the operas she had listened to, while they sipped espresso coffee in minute cups.

Despite the caffeine, Clarice was still feeling deeply displaced.  She took her shoes off to walk on the verandah, smooth, warm and solid, under her feet.  She studied the scrambling clematis up the pillars and the dragonflies in the sunlight.  She was deeply confused.  She had just had lunch with a serial killer who had dissected someone's brains at their last meeting.  She came close to laughing.  She didn't feel up to thinking any further than five minutes ahead.  The wine had been strong, even with the food.

Dr Lecter watched her with much pleasure.  He was refreshing his memory.  He had traced each tendon in turn on the arch of her feet, with his thumbs, when he washed them, after the debacle at Muskrat farm. He remembered the slip and the aroma of the oil he applied afterwards.  She had clearly spent money on more than her shoulder bag.  This sign of a surfacing appetite pleased him.  He paused.  He was conscious that general conversation would be most appropriate for now.  Save the digging and delving for later.  Besides, he was enjoying it.  

"Where did you meet Alexander Montefiore?"

Clarice felt obliged to at least give him some details of Gutkin and Amsterdam.  She felt it was pointless trying to sound enthusiastic about a job that for her, had been simply a time filler.

"And what did you think of Mr M?"

"He could get anywhere that oil could run.  I'm not sure he will have given you the best deal.  He seemed to have pretty expensive personal tastes"

"And how do you find the antiques business in general?"

"Well greased with greenbacks and an average amount of corruption.  You must have known Mr Montefiore for some time."

"No."  Lecter gave her a very measured look.  "He has a very good reputation for thorough research and tenacity and of course, he likes money" Dr Lecter's lips curled.

Dr. Lecter gazed on Clarice. She was fondling one of the dogs.  She looked, for a moment, completely relaxed.

"So, do you feel a sense of achievement, being here, within striking distance again?" His voice was very smooth.

"Yeah" she looked sidelong at him "Although I know luck when I see it" a little pause "Either that or you designed it this way" There was a note of resignation in her voice.

The Doctor smiled lightly "I could take advantage of your gullibility Clarice and play the great magician but that would be a lie.  Seriously, I had no idea that you were in the antique shipping business and more importantly, people such as yourself make their own luck."

Clarice put her head back and laughed.  Dr Lecter admired the curve of her neck and wetted his lips.

"More domestic crisis management in the suburbs of Boston than fancy trips and yeahh … I guess I'm due a couple of breaks" Clarice said this with considerable bitterness.

"Well I am very gratified that your employers saw fit to send you off on a foreign adventure, Clarice.  Had you travelled internationally before?"

"Mexico once, Canada once"

There was a measured pause.

"How long do you wish to stay Clarice?"

'Until the SWAT team arrives' she thought.

"I would consider it a great honour if you would permit me to show you some of our countryside.  There is a very interesting Baroque Church only 5 miles from here"

Clarice looked at him askance.  She almost burst out laughing again.  The gall of the man!  What did he think she was going to do over the next 24 hours?  Or was he so blinded he couldn't see her real motive for coming?  Did he really believe she was here to join him?  No.  He seemed, as always, totally in control.  Clarice felt completely transparent. 

"Or doesn't that quite fall in with your plans for me" He looked amused.  "Could I request a truce for at least this evening and perhaps tomorrow.  There is a group of us – the local priest, the doctor, a retired professor or two and their wives and our very own white Russian Countess.  We meet once a week for some intelligent conversation, good dessert wine and ratafias.  You would be most welcome.  We all speak very acceptable middle European English."

Clarice reviewed her options.  She could refuse, return to the Inn and make her calls.  Quick, clean, but he would have gone by the time anyone arrived.

She could accept and make her calls tomorrow.  She still believed he would do her no harm.  Would she gain anything by meeting these people?  She would get a feel for how protected he was here.  She would satisfy some personal curiosity as to how he functioned in civilised company. She could be polite.

"Thank you, yes"

There was a long pause

"Why did you come Clarice?"

The question split the air.  Clarice's heart leaped

"I already told you"

He laughed, a full, open laugh, which startled Clarice.  "Here, let me offer you a much cleaner solution" He reached for a polished briarwood box, sitting at the back of the verandah.  He pulled out a Luger, beautifully buffed.  It sat like a lump of anthracite on the white tablecloth.

"Finish it Clarice."  His voice was quite flat. "Cleanse the world. Wreak your revenge.  Level the balance, whatever it is you wish.  Life is quite wearisome for me here and you gave me your answer at the Chesapeake.  I would deem it a great favour, indeed an honour, if you administered the coup de grace."

Clarice's heart slammed against her chest.  She looked at him nonplussed.  Lecter looked at her quizzically.

"No stomach for the inevitable?  Clarice you disappoint me."

She turned her head away "God damnit, you know I wouldn't kill you in cold blood."

"Why ever not Clarice?"

The question hung in the heat like wet washing.

At that moment there was the sound of the brass doorknocker.  Clarice breathed.

"That's Pytor" The Doctor's eyes glittered.  "I will pick you up about 7 if I may.  The Countess's lodge is about 3 miles away.  We are very informal.  You may give me your answer tomorrow"


	7. The Conversation

Chapter 7      The Conversation

Clarice's temptation begins.  Transformations commence

The characters Dr. Hannibal Lecter and Clarice Starling, contained herein were created by Thomas Harris. They are used without permission, but in the spirit of admiration and respect. No infringement of copyright is intended, and no profit, of any kind, is made by the maintainer, creators or contributors to this site.

Clarice sat in Pytor's taxi numb.  Why hadn't she just done it? She had been presented with an open invitation.  No, she didn't want him dead.  She wanted the recognition of the world, her world, that she had finished the job, cleanly, by the rules, no unnecessary force, a job well done.  Contained by the proper authority.

'And what is a proper authority?'

"One that upholds the rule of law.  One that protects the innocent and the weak"

'But you have seen that the FBI doesn't do that'

"Yes it does, some of the time, and some time is better than no time"

'Is it? Haven't you seen the second rate prosper and the good men all leave, either voluntarily or in a wooden box?'

"Not all of them" Clarice responded stubbornly.

'You will be quite famous if you pull this off, Clarice'

"I'm not in it for the profile"

'Really?'

"He was the one that got away – he is the big fish, the most cunning, the one everyone has tried to capture"

'Aaah – ambition. To prove to yourself that you are better than the rest.  But you know that already – why bother?'

"To grind their noses in it"

'Recognition.  Forget it Clarice.  They can't afford to give you that.  You are last Thursdays left overs as far as the FBI are concerned.'

Clarice had found that she had lost her argument again.  Her stubborn intent looked more irrelevant every time she dragged it into the sunlight.

Et in terra pax.  Just for 24 hours.  She could relax a little.

Doctor Lecter arrived at the Inn promptly at 7.  Clarice had dressed carefully in a closely fitting cashmere jumper with a low neck and a fine linen bias cut skirt.  She had one expensive pair of low-heeled sling backs and small gold earrings in the shape of a Celtic knot. After some consideration she had put on the silk underwear that she had bought in Warsaw.  She explained away her efforts as not wanting to let the USA down in old Europe.  The clothes, particularly the silk next door to her skin, made her feel completely different – completely female rather than this person of indeterminate gender employed by the FBI.

She felt rested but still displaced. 

The Doctor was standing relaxed, by the bar chatting easily with Tadeusz, as she came downstairs.  As far as Clarice could judge her landlord was respectful but quite easy around Dr Lecter.

She felt his eyes on her, as soon as she started down the stairs.  The reaction from the other men in the bar also felt pretty good.

"And here she is – our queen of the night" He said this very softly and without an ounce of mockery.  He formally kissed her hand and guided her out to the Rover.  The other men in the bar, stood up as she left and she assumed, wished her a good evening or maybe they were just acknowledging the droit de seigneur exercised by Dr Lecter.  Tadeusz beamed.  Clarice was almost getting used to this old world courtesy but she still felt awkward, being treated like a woman in a crinoline.  Good manners demanded that she go along with the local customs.  He didn't touch her again.

He drove with the same grace and precision as he had used in preparing their meal that afternoon.  Clarice enjoyed driving fast herself but rarely enjoyed it with someone else at the wheel.  She felt no qualms with him – he corrected his line and applied the acceleration in time with her mental adjustments.  She relaxed some more.  Dr Lecter talked as he drove about the history of the village and a little about the Soviet rape and pillage during collectivisation.  "This area used to be covered in forests stretching for hundreds of miles.  It made the winters a little less fierce, for everyone.  All cleared in the name of agrarian reform."  He played Vivaldi very softly on the CD system. **__**

It was still light when they arrived.  This was a much more imposing building than Dr Lecter's house.  It was constructed in a yellowish limestone with an almost Italiante design to the frontage with arched windows and a four pillared portico with a curved roof.  There was a battered Lada parked on the fine gravel forecourt and a Toyota 4 x 4.

"The priest Father Geremek is already here" Lecter explained indicating the Lada.

"I met him last night with the village receiving committee" Lecter laughed.

"So how do you get to carry on a civilised conversation with a priest Dr Lecter? "  Clarice looked him straight in the eye.  The Doctor chuckled "Father Geremek was born a Jew and he keeps a mistress in the village.  He is quite open about his Christian inadequacies and he is a deliciously subversive influence in the local diocese.  It is hypocrisy that I abhor, Clarice and blind obedience to idols.  Denying your intellect is a crime against natural humanity."

"So does his congregation know that he is a non believer?"

"Certainly, but then, they are really only interested in the form and the words, not who administers them.  Untidy isn't it?"  

They were greeted by an elderly, stooped butler dressed in a worn frock coat with fraying cuffs and collar.  He greeted Dr Lecter warmly and beamed at Clarice and handed her into the hall.  This had a pink and grey terrazzo floor and Clarice looked up to see a plain cupola over her head about 40 feet above.  It was decorated with scenes from a great battle.

"The sack of Magdeburg" murmured Dr Lecter "A great Catholic victory" his lips curled.

The butler ushered them through tall marquetry doors into a large room beyond the cupola.  Clarice could see this was another salon with an inlaid wooden floor, an elaborately carved marble fireplace, tall French windows opening onto a terrace beyond and furnished with a bewildering selection of sofas and easy chairs, all worn and all of different styles.  There was a group of 3 people by one of the open windows.  They turned as Dr Lecter and Clarice were announced by the Butler.  A lady of about 5' 8'' swept across the room in a fine black lace dress shot with jet beads.  She had a deep purple chiffon scarf carelessly wrapped around her neck and heavy silver jewellery on both wrists.  

"May I present Ms Clarice Starling recently retired from the FBI, Elizabeth"

"You certainly may Hannibal" She offered her hand for Dr. Lecter to kiss and then turned her full attention to Clarice.  Clarice found herself staring at two wide open and intense brown eyes over a long slender nose.  The lips were quite thin.  Clarice didn't flinch under the scrutiny but felt that there were no corners this mind couldn't and wouldn't ruthlessly illuminate, if it chose to.

"Hmm. Intriguing Hannibal.  Welcome Ms Starling.  Please join us" The voice was quite high pitched and incisive.  The Countess took Clarice's upper arm and guided her towards the window.  She continued to study Clarice's profile in detail as they walked across the room.  "It is a very great treat for us to have visitors, particularly from America.  Father Geremek you have already met I believe and may I introduce our purveyor of elixirs and placebos, Doctor Gierowski" The doctor, a man of about 50 with greying hair and a well worn face, kissed Clarice's hand and smiled gently "Please forgive our Countess, She is Russian and has no manners to speak of.  She finds it very painful to mix, with the lower social orders" The doctor beamed at the Countess as he said this.  Father Geremek laughed heartily in a great Jewish cantor baritone.  He too, took Clarice's hand and brushed his lips over her fingers.

The Countess snorted and snapped her fingers at the butler hovering at a long sideboard.  He returned with a deep yellow wine in small Riedel glasses, on a silver salver with a chased silver bowl with what looked like tiny amarettos.

They wandered onto the terrace.  The Countess linked arms with Clarice and launched into a description of the history of the house and gardens.  They circled a fountain with the others.  "It was saved during the war because first the Russians, then the Germans and then the Russians, again, all wanted to stay here – we had a very good wine cellar.  Only Officers, of course.  We ran a brothel upstairs, for a while."  Clarice looked startled.  The Countess curled her lips – "it was that or starve, Ms Starling."

By the time they returned the two professors had arrived with their respective wives, and were in animated conversation by the fireplace.  In their 60's Clarice judged, one Lutoslawski, by name and a Professor of Medieval History, small with steel spectacles and almost bald and his wife who was rotund with apple red cheeks and small plump hands, the other, Jasienski an ex Professor of Economics with white hair, unevenly trimmed and a square face with humorous brilliant blue eyes.  His wife was as slender and tall as her husband with shining black hair tied tightly in a bun.  Her face could have looked severe except for her smile which was wide and warm.

The two men immediately started quizzing Clarice about the state of the US economy.  They wanted her to settle an argument about American policy relating to trade with the European Union.  The Countess rescued her and steered her onto a sofa with Dr Lecter.  The conversation continued, animated and with much laughter.  Clarice was asked to pronounce on Pytor's charm or lack thereof.  Clarice was aware of Dr Lecter studying her from time to time.

"Now Hannibal, how are you getting on with your transcriptions?"

"Slowly, Elizabeth. Everything that has been published is for the left hand, not the right."  Clarice felt a prickling on her spine. 

"Tsk.  You can't keep garnering sympathy forever.  Are you practising?  Paul Wittgenstein never did less than 3 hours per day"

Dr Lecter hooded his eyes as he looked at the Countess, but she seemed unfazed.  "I do have other interests you know, Elizabeth"

"Your investments can't consume the whole day Hannibal.  You know we would all love to hear you play again, before Christmas.  What about the **_Brahms adaptation_** **_of the Bach chaconne in D_**? I'm sure that wouldn't exercise your ingenuity for more than half an hour "

There followed a heated technical discussion about transcribing from the left to the right hand and the limitations of the Brahms adaptation.

"Do you play an instrument Ms Starling?"

"Clarice is just coming to grips with opera seria" Dr Lecter interjected.  This comment sparked a long discussion of operas, interpretations and singers.  Clarice felt comfortable, joining in from time to time as her opinion was apparently valued in this company and they were punctilious about asking for it.  No competition, no sniping and an equality in the conversation between the men and women with which Clarice was unfamiliar.

Clarice was trying to come to grips with the scene in front of her.  Urbane, civilised, animated, rigorous, everyone easy.  Looking at him while he was talking, she saw very little of the man that had inhabited the stone and plexiglass cage in Baltimore.  The voice was golden toned, musical and the body more relaxed.

Now Clarice could understand the comments in his file from the women he had known in Baltimore;  "The sort of demeanour that bathed you in asses milk";  "a mind that lights fires";  "he would look at you and you knew that there was nowhere else to go that evening – delicious"

The conversation then turned to economics and specifically how the state was going to shake off corruption and the scrabbling tentacles of the Russian mafia.  Clarice shared some anecdotes from the FBI history books and then found herself being drawn away, by the Countess, to a couple of chairs by one of the open windows.  It was twilight.  The butler had lit some oil lamps around the room.  By the window it was a little cooler.  The Countess settled herself and the butler appeared with a long slender pipe, lit it for her and left it balancing on a silver ashtray by her elbow.

"Now, tell me about this necklace you brought for Hannibal from America"

"Dr Lecter purchased it from a dealer in Boston.  I understand that it is a family heirloom.  I work there in a security firm and was contracted to courier it here"

"But you two have met before?"  The Countess peered at Clarice intently, in the half light.  Clarice knew it would be pointless to lie.

"Yes, but under different circumstances"

"Before, during or after the trial?"

Clarice was nonplussed for a second.

"My dear, we are not quite as provincial as you might think.  Apart from the doctor and our priest we all knew one another before the war.  It was clear, even then, that Hannibal was meant for greater things.  He started young.  He certainly helped slit a few Nazi and Russian throats before the Red Cross got hold of him"

The Countess drew on her pipe "It is very difficult when you are at war from such a young age, to get out of the habit of settling matters through any other means.  Your patience runs out.  Life is too short to suffer fools gladly.  He never gave any of his history away?  He is an aristocrat.  Any cross examination or interrogation he would have simply viewed as an insult"

Another suck on the pipe.  The tobacco glowed brazier bright.  Clarice was at a loss for words.

"I would imagine that he would have killed very elegantly – both his mother and father had great style.  I shock you a little?  Everyone in this room has committed many murders, by your definition.  The circumstances may or may not have been extenuating – it depends on your point of view. I find it strange that it is the context that is supposed to make a murder good or bad, moral or amoral, just or unjust."  

"I don't see a problem as long as the rules are agreed by the majority"

"Aaah democracy in action.  I'm afraid there was an insoluble problem in this country when a majority over the border decided to selectively cull the population.  From the European experience Ms Starling democracy, does not guarantee natural justice or the preservation of common sense"

"I appreciate that"

"Justice is a moveable feast don't you find Ms Starling?  Pornography in one country is on prime time TV in another.  The human condition is ridiculous.  We make all these limits and rules in an attempt to keep chaos at bay but it still erupts unbidden, at random.  Governments are so clumsy when it comes to managing personal justice"

Clarice felt her hackles rising.  "So we just sit on our backsides and let it all happen?  I don't think so.  You can mock all you like, but rules are there to protect the weak, dispossessed, the innocent"

"And is that how it really works in America?"  The countess looked genuinely surprised although Clarice thought she could detect an undercurrent of sarcasm.  "Also, I would dispute the word 'innocent'.  Apart from some children, no one is totally innocent either in terms of being blameless in their lives, or lacking in knowledge."

"I think you haven't seen what poverty can do to people – they get slapped down so often they never discover that rules can work for them too"

The countess laughed.  "Ms Starling 6 of the people in this room practically starved to death during the war.  Poverty is no excuse.  You can read a book even if your stomach is empty."

The Countess drew on her pipe again. She really didn't want to offend Hannibal's amorata, but her naivety was irritating especially in someone who clearly had a brain.  She decided to turn the conversation.

"You know, I think men are in touch with something that women aren't - that we are all careering uncontrollably towards fulfilling the 2nd law of thermodynamics so … why not help this inevitable process along?  Add to the chaos"

"I must sound very cynical to your American ears – you seem still full of hope and moral certainty, although I see some weariness around your eyes.  Staying compassionate must have been very difficult in your job."

Clarice was having difficulty hanging onto her temper  " As a law enforcement officer I didn't find compassion to be a burden.  In fact it was an essential tool of the trade. It evened out the scales.  You couldn't despise and stay objective.  You needed pity to level out your judgement."

"So…do you feel compassion for Hannibal?  I see some anger and resentment in the way you carry yourself around him."

Clarice paused an instant.  "He played a part in wrecking my career with the FBI " A longer pause as she gazed into the darkness.

"In vino veritas Ms Starling, " murmured the Countess encouragingly.

Clarice continued, "I guess I was heading into a blind alley.  I found that I was working my butt off for an organisation that had lost its way."  She shrugged.  "So maybe Dr Lecter was simply an accident at a random moment" Clarice turned directly to look at the Countess.  "It doesn't change the fact that he wasted people who were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time"

"Survival of the fittest, Ms Starling."  The countess looked down her long nose at Clarice.  "In war you learn that life is worthless so … grasp what you have with both hands and hold it close.  I applaud your desire to reduce pain and suffering to a minimum Ms Starling.  You realise, of course, that you can only make a very small difference or none at all."

"Of course" responded Clarice, resentment rising again "But I know any effect I have, is better than none at all.  And there was no war in the US when Dr Lecter was doing his worst"

"I think he possibly doesn't share your view on that score."  There was another pause.  "I can see why he loves you so much. "

These words exploded in Clarice's head like a firecracker.

"You have an incorruptible vision"

There was a small pause as the Countess tamped down the tobacco in the bowl of the pipe.

"You can't change his nature Ms Starling and by your just deserts he is damned, unredeemable and yet, you are here – why?"

That question again.

"To capture him" Clarice realised as soon as the words were out of her mouth that this could be interpreted in two ways.

The Countesses eyebrows shot up.  "I hope you realise the futility of your endeavour, Ms Starling.  The rule of law doesn't apply here and I doubt that your pockets are deep enough or that you have the right sort of contacts to galvanise the authorities to do anything, meaningful."  

She took another gentle pull on her pipe.  "If on the other hand you wish to administer the justice with your own hands you could always resort to the rough and ready recipe.  Love him and leave him"

Clarice looked at the Countess, startled

"No stomach for the subtle kill Ms Starling? Then I am afraid you are wasting your time here" The countess's nostrils flared.  She took another draw on her pipe.  "Is there anything else you want from him?  In his present state you would only have to ask"

The answer came easily in the haze of the tobacco smoke "Enlightenment, I guess.  I would like a better view of him" – a slight pause "and a better view of myself."

"You are afraid of looking at yourself?  You shouldn't be.  You are the sort of person who will always find their true centre again, whatever the perturbation.  A moral gyroscope."

"However, you will need to be much more relaxed with him if you are going to obtain the full benefit from that sort of exercise.  You will feel much better after you have slept together.  Less tense, you will be able to talk more easily."

Clarice flushed angrily "What!"

The Countess looked at her unabashed  "Yes, of course.  He clearly wants you and your unease around him is, I think, not entirely to do with your previous profession or your moral qualms.  He is a very attractive man, whatever his history"

Clarice felt stunned.

"It is what men and women were made for.  Then you will see that he is like any other man, solitary, largely unloved, controllable to a degree and you will be less threatened by what he has to say, you will be on the same footing.  He will talk and you will listen and vice versa" 

"Also " the countess's eyes narrowed,  "I think you would welcome some undivided attention.  The Maoris have a wonderful fable.  The woman is the tree in winter – no leaves, dormant.  The man is the spring rain that nourishes the tree so that it may bud and flower.  You are already very beautiful…" Her attention wandered and she left the sentence unfinished.

Clarice felt adrift on a great sea with a huge sky over her head. 

"Elizabeth you are monopolising our guest" The tone was smooth and icy, from Dr Lecter, standing by a chair just out of the pool of lamplight.

Lecter could see that the Countess had disturbed Clarice.  This wasn't conducive to persuading her to stay another day.  His irritation began to writhe.

"Don't be tedious Hannibal" snapped the Countess.  "We had no interest in your conversation so we left – has it improved?"

"Madame Lutoslawski has some questions for Clarice.  Her son is going to Harvard next year on a Fulbright scholarship"

Clarice controlled her spinning head and moved away with Dr Lecter.

"Could I have some water, please?" she said a little distractedly.

"Of course"

The butler brought her a tall glass with ice cold water and a slice of lime.  Clarice drank gratefully.  Madame Lutoslawski beamed at her with ruddy cheeks and explained that she was anxious to get as much information about Boston, as possible.  Clarice was mightily relieved to talk to someone patently real and with solid practical concerns.  She spent half an hour talking about the Boston she had got to know over the last year.  Good and bad.  They moved outside into the garden.

Clarice saw her chance.  "How long has Dr Lecter been living here?"

"Oh for a little while" Madame Lutoslawski smiled noncommittally.  There was a little pause.  "You must understand Ms Starling that he is the only survivor of the oldest family in this part of Lithuania.  We are still very feudal here.  He is a long way from America" she looked almost appealingly at Clarice.  "He had a terrible time during the war.  He lost everyone and everything.  He fought.  He is viewed as a Prince here for all those reasons.  You may end up harming yourself if you try and take him back"

"Thank you for your concern, but as I explained, I no longer work for the FBI or any other government organisation." 

Madame Lutoslawski still looked a little uncertain  "But you will be returning to America – you will talk to the FBI then.  He will have to leave."  She sounded very wistful  "We would miss him and he would no longer be safe"

Clarice now understood.  He was indeed, impenetrably laagered in this community.  

The Countess called to them from the French windows.  "Come, it's getting cold.  Danesh wants to shut the windows"

As Clarice entered the salon again the Countess fixed her with an unblinking gaze.  There was some **_Kapsberger_ playing in the background "Will you join us tomorrow for mushroom picking, Miss Starling?  It's traditional at this time of year "  **

This was definitely not what Clarice had planned.  She was aiming to make her call from the post office first thing in the morning and then get Pytor to take her to the rail station – there was a train at 11.30.

" I have to be back in the States by Friday. So I have to leave tomorrow"

The Countess examined Clarice lazily through a cloud of tobacco smoke.

"What a great disappointment for us all.  I hope Hannibal, that you will be able to prevail on our guest to stay at least another day "

"Ms Starling, I think, is immune to my particular powers of persuasion" Lecter directed a gently sardonic smile towards Clarice.

"Then we must make the most of your company this evening Ms Starling.  Hannibal why don't you show Ms Starling the masques while Danesh sets up the card table?  This is a collection my family made over many years – a physical description of their travels."

The Doctor guided her down a corridor still illuminated by the fading twilight to a smaller drawing room with tall windows opening onto a secluded side terrace.  The walls of this room were painted a pale golden yellow and on one wall were displayed about 20 masques.  Some of them heavily decorated with jewels and feathers, others just plain glossy black.  Some with carrying handles, some not.  Clarice had been to New Orleans once and remembered seeing similar creations in some of the tourist shops.  On closer examination it was clear that these were all much older, much more intricate and some of them much more flamboyant than any she had seen in Louisiana.

"These" Dr Lecter pointed to some plainer black masques in a group on their own "are all from the carnevale in Venice collected over three or four successive Grand Tours.  Elizabeth had three brothers.  They all died in the war"

Clarice looked at the array of disembodied eyes. It reminded her of the first Greek tragedy she had seen as part of her education, Euripides, The Bacchae.  Clarice, desperate to keep the conversation on neutral ground, described the experience.  The Doctor saw a lead and pursued it.

"So what did you make of it Clarice?  Chaos over control; emotions over reason."

"I didn't buy the argument that allowing the primitive part of your brain to take over is necessary for psychological health."

"Quite a challenging idea isn't it since people in the West generally try so hard to tame their emotional environment." A small pause. "What about sex as an exception to that argument?"  The tone of his voice was quite even.

Clarice's pulse raised a beat or two.  "Yeah, I'll buy that as an exception…maybe" 

Dr Lecter looked at her.  From the way she held herself it was clear that she was no longer a sexual ingénue as she had been in Baltimore.  However, from the lines around her mouth and from her eyes sometimes, he surmised that there had been some disappointments along the way.  "So what about the masks?"

She realised he was making an effort to keep on less slippery ground. Clarice frowned for an instant.

"In my business I need to read faces, so the masks were in the way, it was like watching a bad dream – disembodied voices"

"So you listen to the voices.  It then becomes pure music, don't you think? Another way of exploring your internal landscape.  Do you reflect much now Clarice?  I would think that you did so infrequently when you were institutionalised."

Clarice offered no reply.

"The masks of course also signify change – you can be anyone you want to be under a mask.  Dionysus was regarded as the most protean of all the gods – always breaking free and transforming into something else.  A small pause and then very softly " Are you transformed Clarice?"

Clarice turned to him with her anger flaring "I'm not here to be analysed by you Doctor"

The doctor smiled a little "That isn't what you just said to the Countess, I think."  He looked frankly at Clarice  "I appreciate that you have been through a furnace in the last year Clarice.  But now you are free from all that.  You can become whatever you want to be "

"We covered this yesterday Doctor.  I have unfinished business with you"

"I made you an offer Clarice"

Clarice gave him a withering look.  "Yeah a great offer.  'Let me take you away from all this.  Come and live in my asylum built for two' "

"I meant the other offer, Clarice.  I seem to remember, Pytor interrupted your reply. 

"Killing in cold blood is not my style"

"Ah yes.  It may prejudice your ethical underpinnings.   So…how are you going to extract this pound of flesh without using force Clarice?"

"Who said anything about a pound of flesh?"  Clarice snapped back

"Clarice, I thought we had already established that you aren't going to be able to take me back in chains and parade me under the porticos of Quantico.  So, I am suggesting that you vent your ire in some other way.  I am open to all reasonable suggestions" Dr Lecter's eyes flashed as he said this.

Clarice had an image in her head of a stooping falcon.  "Tell me about your mother and your family and what happened in the War" Clarice looked directly at him, and saw the merest flicker at the back of his pupils.

Lecter smiled slightly.  He sat down in one of the brocade armchairs and invited Clarice to sit opposite him.  She sat upright and alert, waiting for his answer.

"My Father was murdered by the Russians in Katyn.  Before he went away he asked me to look after my sister, Mischa who was two years old.  The winter of 1943 was very hard.  The snow came up to the first floor windows and we had to dig a tunnel from the house to the animals in the barn.  The Germans were retreating from Russia – bands of starving men all over the countryside.  They came one night to our house and broke in.  They put my sister, my mother and myself in the billiard room while they raided the wine cellar.  They came back and raped my mother over the table.  There were eight of them.  Then they cut off her breasts and disembowelled her. 

"They put us in the barn with our old housekeeper and her husband and their son. He had Downs but was devoted to our animals.  By that stage we had one cow left.  They slaughtered that the next day.  They were inexpert butchers and wasted half the meat.  I crept out that night and got some for everyone before the wolves came.  They took our housekeeper and her husband out the next day.  They raped her while Tomas watched and then scalped them both.  One of the soldiers had taken a liking to me for some reason, so I was put in a place of honour, sitting on his lap to watch.  I could hear Mischa crying in the barn.  I was afraid that one of the others would get annoyed and slit her throat.  I had made a solemn promise to my father to protect her from all harm. Then they took Guido and played some games with him and then cut out his eyes with a bayonet.  I found him that night half way down the snow tunnel, calling to God and his favourite milch cow.  He was too heavy to drag into the barn.  He froze to death."

"Some days passed.  They somehow caught a deer and slaughtered that.  I scavenged the residue for Mischa, but I didn't have the strength to crack the bones open to get at the marrow.  A few days later they came for Mischa.  I tried to stop them.  They broke my arm."  

"That night I escaped.  I had Tomas's old coat and his wife's shawl to protect me.  I hid in a snow hole that night.  I was lucky, there was a storm.  The wolves didn't hunt that night and the snow covered my tracks."

"I was picked up by some partisans.  My job was to go round slitting soldiers throats after the partisans had shot them, to make sure they were dead and then to go through their pockets looking for food, gold, jewellery that they had stolen."

"One night we surprised a group sleeping in an abandoned farmhouse.  I don't know whether they were Nazis or Russians.  We cut their throats or garrotted them as they slept.  We were starving by then.  It must have been February or March 1944 and there was still no sign of a thaw.  We cooked and ate a couple of them that night.  One of the soldiers was carrying my mother's necklace."

"I was picked up by the Red Cross eventually.  That proved to be no safe haven either, as Paul Sowerby probably told you.  One of the people at the manor took my mother's necklace.  The photograph I gave to Paul Sowerby for safe keeping " he glanced at Clarice sharply.

He fell silent, staring at the carpet.  Clarice had been blessed or possibly burdened with an imagination, as an FBI agent. They had been told to keep compassion in a separate box.  She could feel an ache in her chest.

Lecter looked at Clarice quizzically "Now tell me, does that really make any difference?"

"Of course it does.  Why didn't you call it out at your trial?"

Lecter looked at her pityingly.  "In your life, didn't you get tired of listening to excuses, Clarice ?  I asked for no quarter and none was given."  Dr Lecter raised his chin as he said this, like an eagle surveying the horizon. There was a pause and Lecter frowned.  "It is strange.  For a country so jealous of its hunting, shooting and fishing the average American seems curiously separated from the inevitability of death don't you think Clarice?  I always took the view that death was so frequently ugly that one should make an effort to interject some beauty and yes, even humour when one could.  Very difficult when you are fighting out on the streets, I am sure " he looked sympathetically at Clarice.

Clarice felt the ground shift under her feet.  She could not connect with these last statements at all.  She knew, in this country, that there was a history so bloody that casual death could almost be viewed as a genetic imperative. She had never heard someone state it as a natural law.

"So what war were you fighting in America Dr. Lecter?" she could barely keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

"A war against the ill mannered.  Do you know the most important underpinning to a civilisation Clarice? It is how you conduct yourself around others.  Everyone has the capacity to be courteous. Many people choose not to be.  They are the seeds of chaos."

"Does that include ambulance drivers and tourists with identities you want to steal?"

Lecter smiled gently.  "When fighting to survive, all rules are irrelevant.  It is the survival of the fittest.  I am sure I don't have to spell that out for you Clarice.  Anyway, I always asked politely, first."

"Unfortunately Dr Lecter, a majority in America disagreed with your world view.  Although I expect Hitler would have approved."  Too late she realised this last comment was probably beyond bad manners.

Clarice watched his jaw muscles clench.  Clarice didn't wait.

"You believe the end justifies the means, Dr Lecter.  I don't. 

"Purity of purpose is what we should all strive for Clarice. What you strive for "

"Only if you don't trample innocents in the process "

"What is an innocent Clarice?"

"Someone who isn't involved in that immediate action"

"Who is excused from civilised behaviour? Who is immune from immediate action Clarice?  If your purpose is a civilised society, then everyone has to contribute.  If they don't then the purpose is corrupted and chaos reigns and you will continue to thrash around in the swamp with everyone else.  Remember, a whole nation forgot their manners in 1939 and made death into a heavy industry."  The last he spat out.

Clarice was stopped in her tracks for a moment.  "They had purity of purpose – right?"

" Their purpose was indiscriminate annihilation of both the rude and the well mannered."  He sneered  "They weren't sophisticated enough to distinguish between the two."

"Are there no ill mannered people here, now?"

"Just as many as there are anywhere else, but here we recognise natural justice.  Far fewer bureaucrats to get in the way.  Much cleaner. " And here…" he hesitated, "Since our last meeting and in fact for a long time before, I have felt little need to sweep out the Augean stables. I have been preoccupied with other thoughts… scenarios."  He looked directly at her.  She returned his gaze, frankly.  "I understand that you may view my contemplation of you as an insult, Clarice" He looked away.  His blood was still fizzing.  The argument had been delicious.

The conversation came to a full stop.  Clarice suddenly felt completely drained.  "I would like to go back now.  I have to leave early tomorrow."  Her voice sounded heavy even to her ears.

They returned to the main salon.  Clarice was conscious of his body heat all the way back down the corridor, half a step behind her.

The company were crowded around an old Roberts radio when they returned.  Prof Lutoslawski turned around as they entered and beckoned urgently.  "Belarus has closed its borders – some argument over customs duties and the LG drivers have gone on strike in protest.  He flung his arms wide "A voluntary withdrawal of labour.  My God.  I almost feel like a true European" and he laughed out loud.

The Countess turned to Clarice.  "I think you may have to endure our company a little longer Ms Starling, unless Hannibal does the decent thing and chauffeurs you to Vilnius tomorrow"

Clarice considered.  If she got him away from his ground there would be a better chance of trapping him, maybe.  It would mean calling the police from the post office early tomorrow morning.  They could pick him up in Vilnius, at the airport say.

"I would be delighted," murmured Dr Lecter.  He saw the decision and fire in her eyes.  She looked superb.  "We will need to leave about 6.0 am if we are going to have a chance of getting you on a suitable flight to Warsaw"

Clarice swallowed. That would mean trying to make a call on the road.  Difficult or impossible.

She considered.  The Countess was still measuring her through half closed eyes.

"I guess" a pause as she let her shoulders sag a millimetre "I could really use a days vacation.  Could we travel the day after instead, or maybe the trains will be running by then?  I can call the office tomorrow and explain."  As she said this the real reason for delaying sang in her ears 'I want to please myself, just this once.  I want to have one decent conversation with this man, at my leisure.  I want to grapple with this mindscape.'

Dr Lecter noticed with interest a sudden shot of adrenaline entering his circulation.

"Then Miss Starling you most certainly must join us for mushroom picking tomorrow.  I will pick you up in the Citroen at 10."  The tone of the Countess's voice assumed that Clarice would agree.  Clarice smiled a little weakly and the rest of the company beamed at her.

"Ms Starling is a little fatigued, Elizabeth.  I will run her back to Barbara and Tadeusz, if I may.  Shall I meet you at the picnic site tomorrow?"

Arrangements made, Clarice made her apologies and left the salon.

The Doctor guided her gently to the Rover with a light touch to the small of her back.  She sank into the leather and closed her eyes.  Dr Lecter was silent on the drive back to the Inn.  He could see she was tired but still tense.  She clearly didn't want to talk.  Finally he chose some **_Mozart_** – the last vespers he wrote before****he left Salzburg**_._ He could see her relaxing as the **_Laudate Dominum_** took effect.  **

When they arrived he turned off the engine and simply stared ahead through the windscreen.  "I'm sorry if our conversation this evening disturbed you in any way.  You are a guest here.  I really should have exerted more effort to make you comfortable."  His voice sounded to Clarice's ears a little strained.

"I guess it was a little surprising.  Civilised company but the same old arguments" Clarice felt weary.  It felt like she had just done 3 rounds on the mat with one of the big bears at Quantico.

"Dr Lecter, I have to warn you that our truce is over as of midnight tonight."  She looked directly at him when she said this.  The words sounded ridiculous, even to her own ears.

"That's mighty generous of you ex special agent Starling, to give me fair warning an' all" This he said in an affected Texan drawl.

Clarice's anger flared immediately "Don't fuck with me Doctor"

"I wouldn't dream of it without your express consent Clarice". His smile broadened.

"Did anyone ever tell you what an arrogant prick you are Doctor?" Clarice felt her anger boiling over.

"Your use of Anglo Saxon vocabulary is not very original Clarice.  Arrogant? Well I know I have good cause to be."

"So, you spill a little blood and that makes you a God"

"No just an individual who makes a decision and sticks with it.  You recognise that, don't you Clarice?"

Dr Lecter's eyes burned in the reflected light of the dashboard.  "Until tomorrow morning then " he gave Clarice an equable smile and then got out to open the door for her.  He watched the long curve of her leg as she got out of the car – 'like a gazelle' he thought.  Clarice could barely muster enough good will to thank him and asked him not to take her through the door of the Inn.  He stood by the Rover and watched her.

Clarice entered the bar.  It was dark and smoky.  Immediately Clarice detected some unease in the patriarchs sitting at a table with their chess.  They weren't playing but were staring at a group of 4 men in the corner, talking loudly and obviously drunk.  Tadeusz was standing tense behind the bar.  One of them turned to shout at him.  Clarice recognised him immediately as the ape from the train.

The ape saw Clarice mumbled something to his companions and they all stopped talking and stared at her as she made her way to the staircase.  One glance was enough – 'local mafia; black market with a little protection and extortion thrown in' thought Clarice.  She smiled gently at Tadeusz as she passed and said goodnight – almost the only Lithuanian she knew.  Tadeusz smiled weakly at her as she climbed the stairs.  The ape walked over and watched her to the top of the flight.  Clarice did not look back.  Clarice slept badly, restless with anger.

Lecter returned to the Rover and simply sat breathing her in, with his eyes shut while he listened to some **_Chopin - the first piano concerto_** He switched directly to the **_2nd movement._  He very rarely listened to portions of a piece, like this. It was the first recorded keyboard music he had listened to, since leaving America.**


	8. Mushroom picking

Chapter 8      Mushroom picking    

Rated R for physical exchanges at the end of the chapter

The characters Dr. Hannibal Lecter and Clarice Starling, contained herein were created by Thomas Harris. They are used without permission, but in the spirit of admiration and respect. No infringement of copyright is intended, and no profit, of any kind, is made by the maintainer, creators or contributors to this site.

Clarice had made it to the post office by 9 the following morning.  There were two people waiting to use the phone.  She realised after half an hour, that she wouldn't have time to make her call before the Countess was due to pick her up.  She waited to the last minute and then raced back to the Inn, frustrated, again.

The countess was waiting for her, sitting in an elderly, low slung Citroen. 

"Good morning Ms Starling.  I hope you slept well.  Hannibal is catering for us today so we must expect a gastronomic delight for lunch." 

They drove sedately to the edge of a conifer forest, North of the village.  The others were already there.  Dr. Lecter with his Range Rover.  The priest and his mistress in a well worn Lada, the Doctor in a 4 x 4 Toyota.  "Very good in the snow" he said to Clarice. The two Professors' and their wives had arrived in a battered Peugeot.  There was music playing softly on the sound system of the Range Rover**_.  Mozart_ again and the opening to ****_"Die Entfuhung aus dem Serail "_**

"Lovely summer music, Hannibal.  Full of anticipation" said the countess approvingly as she handed out the reed baskets.  She imperiously waved Clarice off towards Dr Lecter.  "Our Prince has a natural compass.  If you go with any of us you may never see the light of day again"

Clarice resented the obvious manipulation of her situation but felt powerless to respond in this company without appearing crass.  She felt in a slightly better temper this morning, despite her disturbed night's sleep and she put this down to the weather – a huge blue sky with mares' tails.  Clarice decided, in the sunshine, that nothing was going to get to her today.  She should have plenty of opportunities to make her call, later on.

She looked directly at Dr Lecter.  "I know zip about mushrooms.  I don't want to poison anyone"

Dr Lecter smiled  " I can assure you Clarice that under my guidance, you will be no danger to yourself or the public at large"

Clarice examined that sentence and reflected on her role as an FBI agent in a previous lifetime.

He gestured towards the forest  "We will go this way.  There are some clearings.  It won't be too gloomy" he gave her a crooked smile.

Even allowing for an extended truce, Clarice still felt completely separated from the real world, in his company.  Although today, it felt a little less bizarre.  'I guess you can become habituated to anything' she thought.

The forest was mixed pines and spruces with the occasional Western Hemlock.  Clarice judged it to be at least 20 – 30 years old and only sketchily managed.  "Is someone going to log this?"

"No. The ownership is still under dispute.  In the meantime the village takes advantage of its natural abundance."  It was very quiet apart from the sound of their companions rooting through the undergrowth and calling to one another, those sounds now rapidly receding.  There was the rustle of a breeze stirring the branches in the canopy but that was all.

"The mushrooms we want are these" Dr Lecter showed her a sample.  "You will not necessarily find them where it is damp but certainly where it is shady" He showed her how to test the cap by peeling off the skin, the distinguishing features of the gills on the edible versions and the type of collar.  "Finally, if you break the cap and white sap comes out, then you can be sure that it is poisonous.  If you are unsure then please just ask.  We should keep in sight of one another.  It is very easy to get lost.  If we do become separated then just stand still.  I will find you" He smiled.

He paused and played with the idea of taking her there and then, but put it to one side.  It wouldn't be seemly.  He moved away.  Clarice saw his hesitation.  She watched his retreating back.  Egyptian cotton shirt, open at the neck, blindingly white in the arrows of light coming through the trees.

The undergrowth in places was very thick with masses of dead, tinder dry wood that one could crack through unexpectedly.  Clarice was glad of her walking boots.  She could see that this would be a great place for blackberries.

As they gathered Dr Lecter talked winningly about the mushrooms that were best to cook with, best to pickle and best to dry. He stripped out some rotten wood on a felled log, with his knife and showed Clarice the Lithuanian version of a termite colony.  

"The ultimate feudal system.  Everyone knows his place and stays there.  You see what happens when no one argues with the established order – you can quietly take over the world."  Dr Lecter looked at her with some mischief in his eyes.

They fetched up in a clearing in bright sunlight with small dragonflies dusting the air.  The trees were tall and straight.  It was like a theatre in the round.

They perched on a couple of cut stumps and Dr Lecter pulled out a long curved clay pipe and carefully packed it with dark tobacco taken from a soft leather pouch.

Clarice looked at him.  "Keeps the flies away," he explained

While he applied a lighter to his tobacco, Clarice studied him.  The tilt of his head, the curve of his shoulder and hip, the sleek black hair gleaming like the back of a raven in the sunlight.  

"Tell me about Barney" She said suddenly.  Dr Lecter raised an eyebrow as he concentrated on getting his tobacco to glow.  He gently blew some smoke in her direction.  The aroma was sweet.  

"Barney was one of nature's gentlemen.  He never forgot the other person's point of view.  Also he was dedicated to making the best of what he had.  He believed that everyone had at least one redeeming feature.  He took enormous pride in everything he did.  You really have to admire a craftsman with that sort of dedication "

Clarice dropped her eyes.  "You know he was selling some of your stuff?"

Dr Lecter gave a small smile "Entrepreneurial spunk – the base matter that made America rich and powerful.  I imagine that he was as shabbily treated by the state when the hospital closed down as you were by the FBI.  Battling to survive, rules become superfluous "

Dr Lecter sucked on his pipe contentedly

"Possessions are merely embellishments.  They should add beauty to ones surroundings – but one shouldn't view them as anything except temporary accoutrements"

"Tell me about deep rollers"

Dr Lecter smiled a little, through the smoke "Deep rollers may know where the ground is, but deep rolling takes precedence, they have to complete that particular flight sequence that way – no compromise, it has to be perfect.  They are natural self-destructors, they have no capacity to take a mental step back and view their true position in space.  They can't adapt to changing circumstances, so they are doomed from birth."

"You think I'm doomed?"  Clarice looked at him a little askance with a half smile.

"I am uncertain, as I think you are.  It depends upon how you choose to evolve over the next few years, Clarice."

Clarice viewed the visible future with a clear eye.  Supposing she did dispose of the Good Doctor, one way or another.  What then?  What new life?  She felt, with some trepidation, an Empty Quarter opening up before her eyes.  Dr Lecter watched her.

"Did you make your calls this morning Clarice? Should I be on my guard?"  His voice almost mocked

"No. There was a queue for the post office and I don't have a charger for my mobile phone"

"Hmmm.  The fates seem to be conspiring against you Clarice.  Oh well, you can always call this afternoon" Dr Lecter's eyes twinkled.

Clarice suddenly realised the futility of her endeavour.  Here, he was protected.  He knew what she was planning.  It was almost embarrassing to be so obvious.

"No divine revenge Clarice.  No lightning bolts from heaven"

Clarice turned away

"Don't mock me" she said in a very even voice

"I'm sorry, the temptation to tease you sometimes is more than I can bear."  A pause.  "Poor Clarice welded to history.  Cast in some immutable material that no one can bend," He said this very softly.  "Perfect"

Her anger flared again coupled with frustration.  She could feel the tears stinging her eyes.  "Fuck you.  What the fuck do you care?  What the fuck did you care about the people you wasted?  Shit why am I bothering with this ?  It doesn't mean anything to you. I'm not sure it even means anything to me anymore"

"It means a great deal to me that you are here – however offensive you may find that.  Your persistence is impressive Clarice.  Now tell me what you want from me"

"I don't know anymore and I don't give a rats ass"

The Doctor carefully put his pipe in a leather pouch  "You mentioned enlightenment to Elizabeth last night.  I think you find yourself in something of a vacuum.  No institution to direct your life and your avowed goal, taking me back in chains to America, unobtainable.  So …. What would you like me to elucidate first – how you arrived at this impasse in the first place or where you should go now?  Clarice didn't answer.  "May I suggest you concentrate almost entirely on the future – you will find that any annoying loose ends will miraculously disappear as the present and future consume your attention"

"I don't view a killer evading justice as a loose end" Clarice almost spat this out.

"You will always care deeply about whatever you do.  That can be a burden.  Giving up is not a sin. Sometimes it's just common sense.  You simply take on another quest, another journey.  It will absorb you and then the unfinished business recedes to insignificance.  Time changes your perspective Clarice.  Don't be afraid to allow it to do its work.  You can't take me away from here and I'm not going to fall onto my knees in front of you and beg for forgiveness. "

Clarice felt hopeless and helpless.  She found his closeness almost overpowering.

"So.  What now Dr Lecter?"  She looked at him rather acidly

"The people you have met in Boston, you find congenial?"

"They aren't people I would seek out as friends, if that's what you mean"

"Then that is what you need to cultivate Clarice."

"I think you need something to eat – missed breakfast while queuing at the post office?"  He looked at her.  Clarices's heart slipped without her knowing why. 

The whole party gathered round the back of the Range Rover.  "So Hannibal, what delicacies do you have for us today?"  The Countess lifted up the damp muslin covers over the silver retiring dishes.  "Aaah, quails eggs, and pizzette! What have you filled them with this time?"

"Pesto, sun dried tomatoes and anchovies and the others have Gorgonzola, chopped pear and fresh sage"

Dr Lecter lit a spirit stove and warmed some butter and olive oil.  He threw in some garlic and fresh thyme for a minute and then some of the mushrooms.  He tossed the pan, extinguished the stove and then ladled the mixture onto thick slices of bread on broad white plates.  They sat on thick blankets and consumed.  The flavours were intense, one after another.  Dr Lecter took some white wine from a cooler with plain glasses and poured for everyone.  In the heat of the day the glasses became milky with condensation almost immediately.  Clarice stared, transfixed by the way her glass diffused the light.  Finally Dr Lecter came and sat beside her.  He ate precisely, cutting his food into small forkable portions with a small paring knife.

"The train strike is likely to continue for the rest of the week.  If you really need to get back to Boston by Friday, then you will have to allow me to drive you to Warsaw tomorrow.  Pytor won't be able to take you, I am afraid – his mother isn't well"

Clarice had to believe him.  

He was sitting almost 2 feet away from her, but she could feel the heat coming off his body.  In the sun she could feel all resolve draining out of her.  Why couldn't she just rest? Why couldn't she just let it all go?  

'He is not going to harm anyone here – this is his home.  The others will watch over him.  It's none of my business anymore'  

'Yes it is.  Yes it is. It's everyone's business.  They are simply too lazy and too corrupt to do anything about it here.  He killed and took pride in it'

'Didn't you kill and take pride in doing it cleanly and well?'

Clarice stopped.  She couldn't go on.  "I keep dreaming about rivers and lakes," she said

Lecter looked at her surprised.  "In what context?"

"Sometimes I am with my Father fishing, more often I am on my own in a boat, just drifting.  I am quite cold.  I feel nothing else" Clarice smiled wearily at the Doctor.

"Does this disturb you?"

"Yes.  The drifting seems to have no purpose" Clarice said these last words very softly.  "I know what it means," Clarice said quickly "But knowing what it means and acting on it are two different things."  She paused again. 

"A little patience Clarice and your natural compass will show you where to go.  Have you made good friends in the past?"

"Yes … I guess" Clarice was thinking of Ardelia

"Then you will again.  You just need to allow yourself the freedom to do so.  This job is finished isn't it?"  Dr Lecter raised an eyebrow as he posed the question.  "You need to dream yourself into your next life, Clarice" 

The Countess appeared, blocking out the sun.  "Ms Starling would you care to join us? We are going to walk to the other plantation to collect blackberries"

Clarice could feel his eyes on her.  Tomorrow she would be gone.  "I was going to help Dr Lecter clear up and then maybe we could join you later?"

Dr Lecter's pupils dilated.

The Countess looked down her nose at Clarice.  "Be careful my dear.  Hannibal is very particular about his dishes.  They have to be washed and dried in a very specific way.  It's almost a religious ritual for you isn't it Hannibal?"

Dr Lecter seemed unfazed.  He sat back and stared lazily at the Countess.  "I believe in taking good care of all of my possessions.  I like them to last."

The Countess smiled broadly at Dr Lecter.  "Au revoir then"

They watched the rest of the party stroll across the tall grass to the far plantation.  Clarice could feel the sun, very warm now on her back.

"We were talking about your future and how you view it.  Change is generally very desirable – it releases vast amounts of energy."  Clarice thought of the shabby 3-room office of Gutkin and Amsterdam with the flimsy desks laden with paper and the crushed polystyrene cups collecting in the bins and felt the gall rising in her throat. 

"The object of your desire seems to have led you almost inadvertently into a new life."  Lecter looked at her with a quizzical smile.

Clarice felt like striking him then and there.  

"You make big assumptions Doctor."  He saw the lightning in her eyes but chose to ignore it.

"You spent your life in the Bureau weighing risks didn't you?  And yet you are here – a great gamble, a great leap into the dark.  Clarice, you have no need to fear anything or anyone ever again.  All you need now is one final leap of the imagination"

He stretched out his right arm and touched her very gently on the forearm with the tips of his fingers.  Clarice felt an electric shock.  The Doctor's eyes narrowed a little.  "Life is malleable Clarice, you simply need to take it in your two hands and shape it.  You look very tired.  Why don't you lie down.  I'll get you a pillow"

Clarice did indeed feel leaden.  She was unsure whether it was the wine, the heat or the constant battering of words from the Doctor, and from inside her own head.  She dropped gratefully onto the blanket where they had been eating.  She was asleep almost instantly.

Clarice woke slowly.  She felt a very light breath of air on her cheek and half opened her eyes.  Her head was lying on a pillow.  It was embroidered with silk thread in a pattern of strawberries with green leaves.  It smelt of lavender.  Someone had put a rug over her.  It was heavy and she felt it round the back of her neck.  Clarice remembered sleeping in the back of her Father's truck when she was about 5 years old covered in his tarpaulin overcoat.  The same heaviness.  They had been on a fishing trip.  Up before dawn and hanging onto the door handle very tight as they bumped down a rutted track to the river.  She had caught a fish for the very first time – what excitement! and her father had gutted it, by the river and then built a fire and fried it in the old black skillet and they had eaten it with their fingers.  It was the best fish she had ever tasted, until the salmon trout, yesterday.  

Through half open eyes she watched Dr. Lecter.  He was lying on his stomach on the rug about a metre away propped on his elbows reading a book that was leaning on another embroidered pillow.  Occasionally he would waft his hand over the book to get rid of an insect.  The air moved the pages a little.  The paper was very fine.  She looked critically at his profile.  At least as patrician as his mother.  Finer eyebrows.  And the lines around the mouth, set as he read.  Then she noticed the lines around his eyes.  So…  he must have smiled a great deal at one time or spent half his life squinting against the sun.  Hannibal Lecter closed the book carefully and gave Clarice a sidelong look.  "You slept very well.  Marek has dubbed you 'Princess Aurora'.  Do you want me to drive you back to Warsaw tomorrow?"

Clarice, in all honesty, didn't want to think or do anything at that precise moment.  She wondered what it would be like to stare at the same pair of eyes, every morning.  Dr Lecter saw the dreaminess and smiled inwardly.  She sat up.  She was a little stiff.  She looked around, startled.  All the other vehicles had gone.

"You were sleeping very heavily.  The Countess and everyone else didn't want to disturb you.  They asked me to wish you bon voyage."

Clarice suddenly felt very alone – much more so than at his house the previous day.

"Warsaw, tomorrow?'

"Yes …. Yes I guess so."

"We can talk more during the drive, if you wish"

Clarice helped Dr Lecter fold up the blankets and climbed into the Rover.  Their conversation was desultory on the way back.  Clarice was aware of a question mark hanging in the air.

The Doctor indicated that he would pick her up at 6 am the following morning.  He followed her into the Inn to give Mrs Minkowski some of the mushrooms that they had picked.  The bar was empty, as was the kitchen. 

Clarice looked at him in the gloom.  The curve of his back and his arm as he placed the basket on one of the tables in the bar with his usual grace.  She thought about the Countess's "subtle kill" and leaps in the dark and possession.

"Come upstairs".  This was spoken as an absolute command.

Dr Lecter looked at her, momentarily startled.  Clarice turned and walked towards the stairway.  "I don't issue engraved invitations."  Clarice walked slowly upstairs and down the corridor to her bedroom.  She could feel but not hear him two paces behind her.

As soon as they entered her room she turned on him and pushed him against the wall and immediately attacked his lips with her teeth.  She heard the surprised intake of breath and his whole body stiffening.  She unceremoniously pulled at his shirt and began to undo the buttons.  Instantly she could feel his heat.  His arms came round her back and for an instant he stilled her lips with his tongue and then applied a long slow breath of a kiss that calmed her.  She stepped back and moved to the side of the bed, taking off her jumper as she moved.  She could taste salt on her lips.

"Get undressed" The command was unequivocal.

Hannibal Lecter realised that she needed to extract some sort of price from him, as a proxy for all the men that had exacted a price from her.  He appreciated too that he was expected to fight, within limits, but then succumb.  He wasn't sure that it would pan out that way, but he was happy to be a pawn, for a while – at least he would be inside her.

He undressed swiftly and Clarice heard the soft click as he uncoupled his hand from the magnetic implants on either side of his forearm.

She surveyed him from the other side of the bed.  His skin glistened in the half light.  She could see his cock standing tall and proud from the surrounding thick curling black hair.  Suddenly Clarice simply wanted him.  

"Lie down" she hissed 

Hannibal Lecter calmly lay down on the bed, his arms half raised behind his head as he watched her eyes flame.  She straddled him with out ceremony.  The speed, with which she held him and guided him into her, surprised him but as soon as she enveloped him he knew how this encounter would play best.  She felt even better inside than he had imagined – smooth muscular and so, so wet.  She immediately began to move, spiralling her hips. He arched his back and gasped.  Clarice paused to study his face, mouth half open eyes tight shut.  She felt like an Amazon.  She increased the speed of her movements and was rewarded by watching his diaphragm contract and heard great shuddering breaths.  His hand was caressing her thigh rhythmically as she finally moved to apply one final deep thrust onto his now rock like penis.  She felt the tip reach her cervix as he bucked under her.  He cried out as he exploded inside her.

She sat back on his thighs, which were still trembling a little and watched his breathing slow.  Her intention had been to slip off him straight away but she paused for an instant. In the half light his ribs were outlined as if by a graphite pencil.  She remembered the first autopsy of a child she had seen.  The pathologist had opened the chest with an incision on either side of the sternum.  The ribs had been moved to the side to give access to the heart and lungs.  The ribs had stared at heaven like the hands of supplicants.

In that moment of hesitation, Hannibal Lecter sat upright and dropped his head to her shoulder.  He began whispering kisses over her skin.  The contraction of his abdominal muscles as he moved sent a stab of fire through her clitoris and she felt his cock, still rod stiff inside her, twitch.  Despite herself, Clarice began to feel the fire under her skin.  He began to caress her arms and her back very gently, all the while running his lips and the tip of his tongue over her neck and the groove between her collar bones and occasionally making a small thrust with his hips against her folds.  He looked at her.  His eyes were fathomless.  He leaned back a little to admire her breasts.  The nipples were erect in the chill of the room.  He ran his fingers gently over them.  Clarice tried not to gasp but he felt her stomach contract, so he knew that all was proceeding as it should.  He began to whisper to her in Italian.  His stomach muscles contracted again and his pelvis lifted driving his penis, still rigid, into her depths.   Clarice gasped.

Clarice tried to fight the tsunami building inside her but with each thrust and feather touch she found herself being sucked further under.  Finally she gave up the battle, and encircled his shoulders with her arms and sought his mouth with her tongue.  As she pressed between his teeth he placed his arms around her waist and swiftly and smoothly turned her back into the bed.  Deepening the kiss his movements became swifter.  At the end of each thrust he lifted his hips a little and this movement finally broke Clarice's last dam.  

She broke the kiss and gasped.  Hannibal Lecter smiled and watched, fascinated as she arched her back under him and felt her arms grasping his, to bring him closer.  Clarice wrapped her legs around his hips and cried out as the wave finally broke and she felt herself being swept by a great force towards some great abyss.  She clung to him desperately and bit fiercely into his shoulder.  He held her very tight as he felt her contract along his length.  She had very strong internal muscles.

He held her close for a long time.  Gently kissing her eyes, neck and shoulders and continuing to whisper to her in Italian.  Finally he took the duvet from underneath them and covered them both.  He turned on his back and encouraged her to lay her head on his shoulder.  She seemed content.  She laid her hand on his chest – as smooth as silk.

Clarice dozed for a while.  When she woke she moved her head to look at him in the half light.  Hannibal looked at her calmly "This wasn't part of your planned itinerary was it?" he said.  She moved off him and laid her head back on the pillow.  ' What in God's name had happened?'  I slept with Hannibal Lecter' and when she said the words inside her head it didn't in any way sound bizarre in fact she felt exultant at the thought.  Why?  Because he was extraordinary and it was her, Clarice Starling, discarded FBI special agent, that had finally captured him and also … he.  Clarice smiled to herself

"Why are you smiling?" He asked softly.  Clarice's looked at him startled

"I was thinking about" … she smirked a little  "technique"

"I think you are beyond that Clarice.  Mistresses of their art don't engage their conscious mind at all"

He gently laid his hand on her stomach.  His hand felt warm.  Clarice put her hand on top to hold it there.

She turned her head to him  "I have to think, what I want to do"

Hannibal looked at her calmly "Yes, of course" a slight pause "and I have to go and feed the dogs.  Do you want me to come back tonight?" 

"No.  No I need to think."  Clarice sat up quickly in bed and stared at the cracked half mirror across the room.

Dr Lecter took this as a sign to leave and quietly slipped out from under the covers.  Clarice watched him as he dressed swiftly with his back to her.  His skin glowed pale ivory in the light.  The muscles of his back and buttocks were delineated like a Durer engraving.

"Shall I come tomorrow morning?"  His face was expressionless in the gloaming

"Yes.  Yes I guess so " Clarice raised her head to look at him in half surprise and smiled gently.

Hannibal Lecter had to exert all his control to not fall on her again, then and there.  He swiftly left the room closing the door softly behind him.  He had to pause at the top of the stairs to regain his equilibrium.  He felt as if he was balancing on an apex – a simple breath could tip him one way or another.  He wanted her complete.  She was almost there.  Tomorrow was another day full of promise and fresh bread.

Clarice stared at the ceiling of her room and watched her universe expand before her eyes.  Yes … she had the power to do anything she wanted.  The sensation was like seeing that beam of light in Jamie Gumb's basement only a thousand times brighter.


	9. The Chirchyard

**Chapter 9     The churchyard**

Rating R for explicit descriptions of physical violence, blood, sinews etc and use of basic Anglo Saxon expletives. 

Clarice discovers the meaning of the words "rape and pillage"

The characters Dr. Hannibal Lecter and Clarice Starling, contained herein were created by Thomas Harris. They are used without permission, but in the spirit of admiration and respect. No infringement of copyright is intended, and no profit, of any kind, is made by the maintainer, creators or contributors to this site.

Clarice felt too exhilarated to sleep.  She was aware of limitless horizons.  She had to work it out.  She dressed quickly, crept downstairs in her bare feet and put on her socks and loafers on the Inn doorstep.

The air was crisp and cold.  There was a whisper of a breeze.  The moon was marbled behind a cloud, silver veins around the edges.   Clarice made her way purposefully towards the church.  She could see a light burning in one of the windows, obliterated now and then by the branches of trees moving gently in the wind.  Was it possible Father Geremek was watching over a body in the church?  She felt a dire need to talk to someone.

Clarice entered the churchyard through a low gate.  There was a curved gravel path to the porch.  The stones crunched under her shoes.  She was looking at her feet as the moon was half way behind a cloud and she didn't want to trip.  A movement at the corner of her eye made her look up.

There were 4 of them standing in front of her holding bottles.  She could see their breath in the diffuse light.  She recognised the ape, licking his lips.  He mumbled something to his companions and a couple of them grinned.  Clarice caught the word "fuck."  They started to move sideways, watching her all the time.  Their intent was quite clear. Clarice judged that running was the only option.  She took one step back before turning and immediately felt heat behind her and in the next instant a large arm, covered in heavy close knit material, was around her shoulders and a hand smelling of engine oil, over her mouth.  She stamped, trying to find a foot or a leg, but before she could do anymore, she felt herself being lifted off her feet and the others fell on her.  She tried to cry out but the man behind her knew what he was doing – he had three fingers under her lower jaw and the other two over her nose.

She felt her jacket being pulled down, frantic tugging at her shirt and pants, grunts and swearing.  She felt cold steel against her abdomen and tensed her muscles, heard the tearing of fabric and felt the brush of rough denim against her bare legs.  They were all breathing heavily, grunting and rasping.  

Her instinct was to fight with every muscle and sinew in her body, her intellect told her to shut up and take it like a woman.  She frantically kicked out with one leg and connected with something. She heard a whoosh of expelled air and a muffled yell.  The next instant the ape was right in front of her, holding her chin with one hand and breathing heavily.  He considered her for a moment with bloodshot eyes and a breath heavy with vodka, and then Clarice heard the swish of his other hand coming.  She was only able to turn her head a fraction before the blow struck against her jaw.  He hadn't held back.  Clarice's head reeled.  She hadn't been on the mat with anyone for over a year.  She had forgotten how to take a  blow.

With consciousness slipping away and the pain filling her head and shoulders and chest, Clarice was only dimly aware of being lifted and carried to the nearest sarcophagus.  They threw her face down and ripped off her chinos.  She felt someone pulling at her pants and cursing.  She felt the cold steel again and heard the material tear.  Instantly she felt a great weight on her and a great swollen cock clumsily thrusting between her legs.  There was a hoarse command and she felt both wrists being pulled across the top of the stone and someone else pulling her legs apart by her ankles. She opened her mouth to scream.  He grabbed her by the hair, pulled her head back viciously and then one of the others pushed a rag into her mouth.  Then he began.  

She resisted the first thrust as well as she could but he was very strong.  With each push she could feel a searing pain extending up her abdomen and into her back.  Initially she concentrated on trying to relax her internal muscles so that it was less painful. This didn't work.  She felt the hot fluid pour into her as the first one collapsed on top of her.  Then there was some rearranging of arms and legs and whispered swearing.  The sound of a zip and the next one was behind her.  This one grasped her by the hips and pulled her towards him.  The others didn't relax their hold on her wrists.  She felt as if she was on a rack.  He unceremoniously made three or four quick deep thrusts oohing and aahing as he did so and then convulsed and then leaned over and ran his tongue down her back before he withdrew.

The third one seemed to be having trouble standing upright and unbuttoning himself.  One of the others helped him using his fingers to guide his cock into her.  There was laughter now and verbal encouragement from the others.  This guy was heavier even than the first and pushed so hard that she felt the skin coming off her thighs as they scraped across the stone.  Her face was pressed against the rough granite and she could feel the skin coming off her face.  This pain was nothing compared with the pain in her guts and what was building inside her head.  She was choking. She tried not to retch as she worked the cloth away from the back of her throat with her tongue and teeth.  She could feel the panic rising up her throat.

The third one finished with a grunt of satisfaction.  She felt drips down the back of her legs.

The fourth one apparently had other ideas.  They turned her onto her back one of them lying on one of her arms so he could hold a blade at her neck.  He breathed heavily over her face – alcohol and smoke.  He chuckled and licked his lips as he watched.  They held her legs wide open, she felt the cold air, incongruously a gentle breeze and then he was on her thrusting at great speed with little pants.  He seemed to take forever and the others clearly began to get impatient as they began chanting something at him.  Eventually, one of the others pulled him off and there was more cursing.  

Clarice began to feel remote and found herself  drifting a little above the tombstone, looking down on the scene.  Her pale body was spread eagled, there were two of them at her head and another crouched by one of her legs.  The ape was pushing the fifth one away and slapping him around the head.  The ape picked up a bottle, smashed it against a tombstone and approached Clarice.  The moon came out from behind a cloud and the glass looked very pretty, Clarice thought, twinkling in the light.  The ape spread her legs once more and found her entrance with his fingers three, four or more.  Clarice saw, from above that he was pulling his right arm back preparing for one last thrust.  The fractured glass flashed in the light.  She was aware of two shadows silently covering the fifth man and then the weight between her legs was gone.

There was a muffled exclamation from the man holding her legs and the two at her arms looked up and she felt their grip relax.  She heard yelps and deep throated growls.  'Hounds of Hell' she thought.

From her elevated position she could see another shadow behind the ape, wrapped partly around his neck with the gleam of a curved blade, startling against the blackness.

Her eyes opened.  They were glued together with dried tears.  She painfully pulled out the rag from her mouth with one hand and grasped the blade that had been resting across her neck, with the other.  It had a smooth and beautifully contoured handle that seemed to snuggle into the palm of her hand.  She sat partially upright and took three or four deep shuddering breaths.  The air was ice cold.  It felt like fire as it went down into her lungs.

She stared fixedly at the ape.  There was saliva dripping from the corner of his mouth, down his chin.  He was looking at her quite fixedly. He uttered just one word "Bitch"

Clarice felt like an ice pick.  She looked at the blade in her right hand.  It was about 7 inches long, slender and came to a point.  Perfect she thought. 

The lava came up through her chest and she watched, half fascinated as a red curtain came over her eyes. The last sentient word she heard was 'berserk' and then she screamed and fell on him driving the knife up under his chin, through his tongue and palate. Then she used the flat of her right hand to drive it up into the base of his skull.  " Motherfucker you're the BITCH" The last word she screamed into his eyes as they began to bulge.  She twisted the blade again and stepped back.

The man behind saw her fury and rejoiced.

She instantly turned and saw one of them cowering at the base of the sarcophagus.  She was vaguely aware of a whispering sound behind her, A sigh and something warm spattering against her back.  She sprang onto the crouched man with a cry that she didn't recognise.  She didn't care. It was simply fuel for what she had to do.  The blade went into the side of his neck and then across his face and hands as he raised them to protect himself.  Clarice was vaguely aware of crying out incoherently as she cut.  The blood ballooned all around her.  She felt the blade snag occasionally on cartilage and sinew. 

As the man's hand movements became more feeble she looked up.  One man was spread eagled against one of the upright tombstones.  There was a shadow behind him apparently holding his wrists.  Clarice could see the terror in his eyes.  She licked her lips. They were sticky.  She was aware that she was snarling.  The satisfaction at seeing this man's fear was delicious.  She savoured it only for an instant before pouncing on him.  She watched the fear overwhelm him completely as the blade slid under his sternum.  She moved the point around inside him and watched the horror reach his mouth.  He opened it wide to scream.

"No" she breathed into his face and placed her left hand over his mouth.  She could feel him choking and his whole body convulsing, his arms still held behind him.  To finish him off she drove her leg into his crotch and then watched him collapse to his knees in front of her.  

She became aware of a scrabbling noise and yelps in the grass about 20 feet away.  She turned and leapt towards the sound.  Two large, slender dogs, black in the darkness were worrying and snarling at the fourth man.  His trousers were down around his ankles and his legs were white in the moonlight.  There was a whispered command behind Clarice and the dogs fell back.  Clarice straddled the man and turned him onto his back.  She sat on him and moved her hips in a parody of their previous encounter.  

"So how does that feel for you?" she spat into his stricken face.  The voice behind her translated her words into Lithuanian.  The man's eyes darted terrified, between Clarice and the other voice.  He said something, obviously begging.  Clarice wasn't in the mood.  She drove the blade directly through his larynx and listened to him gurgle as she bent her head to whisper in his ear.

"Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you"

She moved the blade a few times sideways, marvelling at its edge and the ease with which it still cut.  Then she withdrew it and stood up, watching dispassionately as the man held his neck to try and stem the flow of blood as he coughed and hissed and spat.  The dogs were clearly desperate to attack.

She was breathing hard.  She could feel what remained of her blouse, clinging to her.  Her hands and legs felt sticky.  

Clarice turned to her shadow and looked directly into his eyes.  "Let them" she said.

There was a one word command and she turned away as she heard the dogs leap with a joyous whelp onto the half conscious man.

She walked slowly back to the sarcophagus and looked at the fifth man.  His throat had been neatly cut from gonion to gonion.  He was on his back.  Arms outspread, staring at the stars.

Clarice looked up.  The moon was bright enough to obscure everything except Cassiopeia and Capella.  The red haze began to dissipate.  She began to shiver.  The knife, slippery as buttered asparagus was stroked out of her fingers.  A heavy coat with a smooth silk lining came over her shoulders.  She realised she was aching all over and that her knees were trembling. The pain began, her face, her back and shoulders, between her legs and a deep ache inside.  She bent over and retched.  

In the past Dr Lecter had been physically demonstrative in carefully calculated situations.  Now he didn't have the time or inclination to think.  He stepped behind her, put his arms around her and buried his nose and mouth into her hair, sticky with blood.

Clarice felt herself lifted up and cradled.  There was the gentle bumping rhythm of someone carrying her as they walked.  This reminded her of her Father, wrapping her in a blanket and taking her from her aunt's bed to the truck after they had stayed late for dinner one night.

She smelt the leather of the Range Rover.  She lay flat in the back seat and saw the shadows of the trees caught in the headlights flicking over the interior as they drove to the lodge.  She remembered seeing all this before.  

She was incredibly weak.  She felt herself being carried up the stairs and the thrust of his legs as he propelled them to the landing.  There was the whisper of wool against brocade as she was gently lowered into a chair in a bedroom that smelt of summer and then the sound of a bath running.  Finally she was standing on a thick towel in a bathroom and she felt his hands gently slipping the coat off her shoulders.  "I will have to help you" he said almost apologetically and with infinite care he peeled the remains of her shirt from her back.  She felt his fingers swiftly examining her wounds.  "No bones broken" he whispered and then he took her by the hand and carefully stepped her into the bath.

Clarice sank into the water and felt it enfold her like a womb.  She soaked and then felt him lift her up and a soft sponge being run over her back and neck.  She felt her hair and scalp being massaged and warm water running down her spine.  The soft sponge massage continued down her body and both arms.  There was a slight hesitation as he reached her waist but she raised her hips, indicating that he should continue. He finished with her feet, stroking the sponge from her ankle to the tip of her toes.

She stood on the soft towel cocooned in a full length towelling robe as he held her gently and patted her hair dry.  Then he took her by the hand and guided her into the bedroom.  He removed the towelling robe and covered her in a silk one and then pulled the duvet back.  She looked at the snowy white sheets and stepped carefully into the bed.  It was warm.

"Pain killers" he said as he offered her two white tablets in the palm of his hand and some lukewarm tea.  She swallowed them obediently.

"Dr. Gierowski is on his way.  He will be able to give you something stronger.

Clarice looked at him properly for the first time that night. 

Clarice managed to mumble "Euripides was right"

Dr Lecter didn't respond.  His eyes looked bruised. 


	10. The Recovery

**Chapter 10   The Recovery**

Transformations continue

The characters Dr. Hannibal Lecter and Clarice Starling, contained herein were created by Thomas Harris. They are used without permission, but in the spirit of admiration and respect. No infringement of copyright is intended, and no profit, of any kind, is made by the maintainer, creators or contributors to this site.

Dr Gierowski was swift and professional in his examination.  "I'm going to give you some morphine to make sure you sleep.  I would like to take a cervical swab for culture so that we can start you on the correct antibiotic, if needed.  I can take the sample tomorrow if you prefer" Clarice shook her head. "Are you taking an oral contraceptive ?"  Clarice nodded.  'Strike while the hormones are hot' had been Ardelia's advice.  Clarice had never found it worked that way but she valued insurance policies and so had kept taking them. Anyway, she had relished having some freedom of action in Boston.

He talked with Dr Lecter in a low voice at the door before he left.  Dr Lecter came and sat in the chair by her head as the morphine took effect.  She looked at his hand, draped over the arm as her vision blurred.  It was completely relaxed.  Long elegant fingers with, she noticed, earth or blood or something underneath all the fingernails.

She slept for 12 hours.  When she woke the room was empty and her body was throbbing all over.  Her limbs felt like lead and she found it agony to move but knew she must to ease the tension.  She turned slowly to look at the window.  It was partly open.  The muslin curtain was moving gently in the breeze and the sun was streaming in washing the material in different shades of cream and white.  She could hear the movement of the pine forest at the end of the paddock and smell fresh cut grass.

She heard the door open softly.  Dr Lecter stood by her bed with a tray with a deep bowl.

"Soup" He laid the tray on the bedside table and helped her upright, holding the pillows behind her head until she could lean back.  He placed a thick white napkin around her neck and then sat on the bed, lifting a silver soup spoon to her lips.  It was a clear consommé and smelt smooth and meaty.  Clarice managed 4 or 5 mouthfuls before she rested back on the pillows.  "Some more analgesia, Clarice " She obediently swallowed the pills and lay back again

"Upright or flat?" he asked.  She indicated that she was comfortable propped up on the pillows.  She moved her arms and legs slowly to get rid of some of the stiffness.  He sat in the chair by the bed, opened a book and began to read to her.  It was Italian poetry.  His voice rose and fell in the smooth rhythm that she remembered from the tapes.  She slept again.

On the second day he asked if he could massage her feet.  She acquiesced.  It helped to drain the pain away, temporarily.  He explained that Father Geremek had called Boston and had explained what had happened.  

Dr Lecter withdrew behind his bars and watched.  He knew he could do very little at this stage except cater to her physical needs which he did with great care. 

He was aware of two possibilities.  She could turn to him for comfort or she could turn into a block of ice and leave.  He had never intentionally given comfort to anyone.  Advice, yes but comfort, no.  Intellectually he knew what to do but he was unsure that this would be enough for her. 

On the third day she insisted on getting out of bed, moving around and sitting at a table to eat.  She found that it was as painful in bed as out and at least if she moved, she could concentrate on something else. 

Dr Lecter explained that he had a housekeeper.  She came three times per week.  Clarice surprised this individual, as she was clearing out the towels in the bathroom.  She was tiny and stooped and had coal black eyes.  She gave Clarice an old fashioned look and then scuttled away like a hermit crab. 

Clarice was sitting in bed that evening listening to some**_ Telemann,_** waiting for the painkillers to kick in when quite suddenly the tears started streaming down her cheeks, soaking the cotton over her shoulders. She convulsed with a sudden pain in her guts and rolled onto her side curling up to contain the agony.  How ?…how had it happened ?  How had she allowed it to happen ?

Then the stern Protestant whispered in her ear 'See what happens when you try and take God's work into your own hands – it was not your job to exact revenge on this man and certainly not your place to extract pleasure from the process.  You have paid dearly for that presumption'

Dr. Lecter saw Clarice scourging herself.

"There is no heaven or hell Clarice, except the ones we create for ourselves. "

She felt the enfolding warmth behind her and his head resting against

her neck.  His arms held her very firmly as she rocked gently to ease the pain.  After a while the sobbing stopped.  He held her until she slept and then placed some pillows at her back to replace his warmth and covered her with the duvet.  Holding her had eased his hunger a little.

On the fourth day they began to talk.

"I don't know how I didn't see them"

"You had your mind on other matters and you were on ground you didn't know"

"I can't believe I didn't see them"

"You are leaving a life behind.  No more watching your back or covering for anyone else.  No more asking permission. No more clearing up detritus left lying around by other people.  You were concentrating on something further ahead than the ground under your feet."

Clarice felt profoundly that she had failed herself.  The final and ultimate failure of her technique.

"You are no longer a special agent, Clarice.  You shouldn't expect that you will think and act like one, any more.  You are in the middle of dreaming yourself anew."

They talked some more about the Bureau.

"At the Academy, I could legally fight.  Fight for a good reason.  That felt good.  And then in the Bureau, I guess I didn't ask the right questions or ask them in the right way, or maybe I just got impatient, I don't know.  In the end I didn't give a fuck and just opened my mouth – it felt liberating sometimes, to be perverse.  That's all"  

She looked back and tasted sour milk.  The years spent sparring with shadows.  The closed smiles, the conversations behind shiny doors, the wary look in Jack Crawford's eyes, the shifting in circles from one inconsequential job to another.

"Clarice, you know bureaucracies are not built to withstand or even recognise questions – they are there simply to absorb them, to buffer the state from irritating perturbations"

"Well, I guess I know now" Clarice gave him a bitter smile, as far as she could through her swollen lips.

"And Jack Crawford ?"

Clarice smiled ruefully.  "Poor Jack.  I think he sent me to you because he was desperate and yes, smarter than you thought."  She looked at him sideways "Deep down he knew what sort of bait you might snap up.  I think he genuinely thought he would be able to help me.  Poor Jack, as inept with office power plays as I was"

"And Paul Krendler ?  What redeeming features inform your memory of him ?" Clarice could hear the acid drip and hiss.

Clarice looked at him sharply.  "He was a piece of shit but no one deserves to die just for being a corrupt politician and scared of women"

Dr Lecter's eyebrows shot up.  The original impulse at the Chesapeake, had been to create an exquisite tableaux for Clarice, as a gift.  He realised at the time that he had miscalculated but her stubborn insistence on creating excuses for the unredeemable was becoming tedious.

 "Really Clarice ? I thought we covered this at Elizabeth's soiree.  If you let any state bureaucrat loose, no questions asked you condemn you and yours to perdition.  As for being afraid of women, well it may have been women in general, however it does appear that he chose one in particular to receive his unique brand of beneficence." She could hear the ice in his voice.  

Clarice half agreed with him, silently. Her mind wandered.  There had been some good times.  Clarice noted the past tense, absently.

"Ardelia was a good friend.  I guess she was just more pragmatic about the system - spun a better line."  There was some bitterness in Clarice's voice.  "I think she just despaired of me in the end – Clarice Starling stubborn, pigheaded"

"Did she offer to help after our last meeting ?"

"No.  And I didn't ask her to put herself in an impossible position.  Ardelia had a career.  I didn't"

"No.  You just knew you had done what was right rather than what was expedient. Your Father would have been proud of you."

"I'm going to suggest **_Verdi_** raving against the fates."  He gave her the **_Requiem._**  She listened for the rest of the afternoon.

On the fifth day they talked about her father and mother

Clarice no longer felt uncomfortable under his gaze.   "I don't remember my Mother.  The pictures we had and from what people said, she was pretty, cherished.  My Father liked to look out for people.  He taught me how to fish, how to shoot a gun, how to butcher a deer.  I guess I was a tomboy when I was young – climbed trees, rode my bike all over, got caught stealing apples, breaking windows, played with the boys rather than the girls in the town.  The boys just seemed to have more fun." She stopped, she could feel the bile rising in her throat after those words.  She swallowed and continued.  "He taught me patience and that people were basically good and that half the messes they got themselves into were only half their fault.  I loved him.  I feel I owe him."  Her voice was dry.

"Owe him for what Clarice?"

"His view of life.  His values"

"They are all your own Clarice.  You have your own pair of eyes, your own mind.  You are unique. "  

"Do you remember being angry when he died?"

"Yes, of course.  I used to beat my pillow at night. I felt it was all his fault he got killed – he was careless.  He left me alone.  I had relied on him and he crapped out on me."

"It was an accident Clarice.  Chaos is everywhere.  Sometimes we randomly trip over it and are sucked into the vortex. No fault, no failure of technique, just blind chance. And then you found you could survive and flourish without him"

"Yes"  Clarice sounded almost surprised.

"Then you will survive and flourish again"

On the sixth day Dr Lecter talked some more about his family.

"My mother slept in this room when she first came to visit my Father's family.  She came with a great entourage.  Some of them had to sleep in the attic.  She was Italian, from an old aristocratic line that had fallen on hard times financially.  At the beginning of the 1900's they were down to their last estate.  The marriage was deemed essential to secure the future of the family."

"And the necklace?"  Clarice could still only talk with difficulty.

"It was an engagement present from my Father.  It had been in the family for a long time.  Reputedly given to one of my forbears by Catherine the Great for services rendered.  There was a pause as Dr Lecter shut his eyes.  It is the first memory I have, of my mother."

"What was she like?"

"Remote, fiery.  She showed me that there was beauty even in terror.  She had some memorable arguments with my Father over money.  She was an accomplished pianist.  She was very generous with the servants.  She was stoical when my Father left.  A true aristocrat"

"And your Father?"

"He taught me how to hunt."  Dr Lecter opened his eyes wide and stared at Clarice with unblinking eyes " And he taught me how to kill cleanly."

"Why did you kill Dr Lecter ?"

"Because it seemed like a good idea at the time."  His smile was creamy.  Clarice's mind went blank for an instant, the connection cut. Dr. Lecter looked at her, head skewed  "I think Clarice that you too relied on a personal rather than an imposed morality at the end of your sojourn at the FBI – didn't you?  Deciding for yourself and bearing the consequences must be a sign of maturity - moral sophistication if you will.  Didn't you feel you had outgrown the lumbering monster by the time you drove to Muskrat Farm ?"

She pondered on this, reluctant to come to a conclusion.

" What is your essence Clarice ?"  He said this almost absently.

Clarice paused and reviewed the last 5 years or so.  "I hunt and I capture and I comfort now and then."

"And who comforts you Clarice ?"  He said this very softly. "Who helps you to drift off to sleep at night ?"  Clarice tensed. "You know the answer to that"

"Not until you speak it"

She opened her eyes and looked at him directly.  The tapes from Baltimore."  She looked at him sharply for any sign of smug self satisfaction, but saw none.

After that Clarice phoned Morton.

"Jeez Clarice – I always thought foreign places were dangerous but not that dangerous.  You stay for as long as it takes, d'ye hear ?  Just keep me posted as to where your at. OK ?"

Clarice acquiesced.  She felt completely separated from that other reality.  Right now she didn't care.  She just wanted to rest.

A little later Dr Lecter took up where they had left off.  "We were talking about fundamentals.  You talked about your work, hunting and capturing.  Which gave you the most satisfaction ?"

Clarice thought for a moment.  "The hunt.  I guess because it was the mental and physical effort that made me feel real good.  Fighting the good fight. "  Her lips curled  "And when I was investigating, that was when I was allowed to use my imagination.  And then …. there were a whole series of cases where we put in the work, people died for no good reason I could see, except political expediency. I lost faith, I guess"

Dr. Lecter glowed.  "So when did you last reflect yourself in a mirror Clarice ?"

That word again.  Clarice shied from it and Dr Lecter saw that was the case.

"Why are you afraid to look Clarice ?"

"Because I will appear less than I should be.  I will be disappointed with what I see or …. maybe afraid"

Dr Lecter leaned forward.  "Less than you should be. And who defines who you should be?  No Clarice, you are complete.  You are here on your own cognisance.  You are answerable to no man.  You are not defined by your work or the quest.  You are just Clarice Starling, beautiful enough to take any man's breath away"

He could feel her pulse start at that last observation.  She was clearly, seriously deficient in receiving compliments of any kind.

"If you would allow me, I could show you other journeys, travels for your benefit rather than for the benefit of an institution or a miasma of an ideal."

"And what would be the purpose in all that Doctor ?  Wining dining, trips to the opera ?  What useful purpose would that serve?"

"It enriches you and everyone involved with the endeavour.  It makes people stop and reflect.  It encourages a general striving for perfection – unachievable but that is unimportant.  It frees the imagination.  It would allow me to treat you as you should be treated.  It would amuse me "  The Doctor paused and then completed "It feeds the soul."

Clarice looked at him startled.  "And how can that word have any meaning for you ?."  

"The purpose of feeding the soul is to contain the beast "  The Doctor's eyes glittered momentarily.  "All sensual and intellectual pleasures, achieve the same result.  I use the word 'soul' to describe a very specific set of neurochemical responses.  I don't imply any religious or ethical genesis"

Clarice looked out of the window and breathed in the night air.  There was a dew, so the smell of the grass and the clematis came heavy through the open window.


	11. Tango practice

**Chapter 11**   Tango practice

This chapter does exactly what it says on the tin

The characters Dr. Hannibal Lecter and Clarice Starling, contained herein were created by Thomas Harris. They are used without permission, but in the spirit of admiration and respect. No infringement of copyright is intended, and no profit, of any kind, is made by the maintainer, creators or contributors to this site.

As Clarice's limbs became less painful, she found that she was getting both restless and frustrated. She had never been one to sit for hours reading, even as a student.  She ran through the scene in the churchyard four or five times a day. At first she had been afraid to look. It was easier now that her natural aggression was returning.  The phrase that kept tumbling in her brain was "rough justice "

Dr Lecter noted her physical agitation and suggested some exercise to loosen up and stretch the muscles and joints.

He ushered her into a room at the rear of the house, which she had not discovered on her first day. It was about 50 metres long by 30 metres wide with floor to ceiling windows opening on to the verandah.  The floor was glassily polished spruce cut into narrow, perfectly fitting boards.  When Clarice stepped on to it she could feel it spring under her feet and she could see the reflection of her own shadow.  The room had been used for soirees with music and dancing.  There was a cavernous fireplace in Carrera marble at one end of the room with a chimney piece covered by a large gilded mirror, tilted a little to reflect the whole length of the room and surmounted by a stooping eagle.

The Doctor had placed a small CD player on a chair by one of the windows.  He had drawn back the curtains.  They were green crushed velvet with braided gold edging and tassels.  There were still dust motes wandering in the air.

"I think" he paused "a little tango, because it can be as slow or as fast as we please" He smiled a little.

Clarice looked a little startled.  She had never danced much, other than a little line dancing at a beer and ribs place when she was in college.  Then she had been relaxed, drunk, flushed with the triumph of being at a good college, taking a degree.

"Have you ever danced with someone Clarice ?"  His meaning was clear.  He meant a deux, following / leading.

"No.  I guess not.  Not in the way you mean"

"Good.  No preconceived notions, then" He smiled again. "The tango, in its various forms is a conversation.  First, we learn to walk."

Dr Lecter demonstrated the step.  Backwards first, reaching out to the full length of the leg, toe grounded, a little hesitation and then the shift of the weight to the rest of the foot – almost a gliding step.

"Now, stand in front of me Clarice and put your hand over my heart. Can you feel it ?"

Clarice nodded.  She felt dumb.  This was a foreign land for her.  She could feel the muscle pulsing under her palm.  Slow, steady.

"I will put my hand over your heart if I may.  Just so. This will set the time of our steps. Now walk backwards in time to what you can feel"

They began, walking up and down the room to the time of their own heartbeats.  He looked at her without blinking while they were doing this.  At first Clarice had to look fixedly at his left shoulder to concentrate.  Finally he said "It sometimes helps to close your eyes.  It is also very good for your balance"

The effort was intense for Clarice.  Clarice understood the value of repetition and she enjoyed the fineness of the balance required and the subtlety of the change in rhythm of the step from stretch to toe to heel.

Finally the Doctor said. "Let's try this to music"  His hand dropped away.  She felt bereft for a second.  The music was soft but with a clear rhythm for Clarice to follow

"Now, the stance.  This is very close sometimes but not in the beginning, you need to be able to watch how I move."  He gently placed Clarice's right hand on his left forearm and his other hand to the small of her back.  There was clear daylight between them. "Now we walk again. I will follow you"  He smiled encouragingly.  They began again.  Stretch, toe, hesitate, heel.  When he followed her she had the impression of a skiff being pulled gently behind another boat.  When she followed him she felt as if she were floating or skating.

"Are you comfortable with that ?"

"Yes" she replied honestly

"Good. Now some simple steps"

Dr Lecter was a patient and responsive teacher.  Clarice found the process similar to learning aikido.  Show, show and tell, do and tell and then just do it, over and over again.  The discipline fell into place like a seamless stretch suit over her skin.  She felt almost herself, again.

After an hour and a half, they stopped.  "It will feel very stiff and formal at first, until you know the steps and the leads. Then you will be able to relax and simply listen to the music.  How are the muscles feeling?"

Clarice felt tired but stretched and clean.  "It's been a good workout for me.  Thank you"

The process was repeated every morning and afternoon for the following four days.  In between times Clarice read in the library, and dozed in a hammock on the verandah.  Sometimes she listened to Dr. Lecter play and sometimes they talked.

On the following morning Clarice went to the ballroom as usual.  Dr. Lecter was standing over the CD player staring at a collection of discs. He carefully selected one and then turned to Clarice briskly, full of intent.  "Today we dance ex tempore"  He beamed.  Clarice felt a little apprehensive. She knew the steps, she knew the leads he would give but up until now they had never ventured out of a strict, stepped routine. The music started.  Dr. Lecter extended his right hand.  "For this I will need to be a little closer, to be able to guide you"

Clarice, used to the feel of his body, felt no alarm.  She moved her left side into the curve of his right arm and leg and laid her hand around the back of his neck.  It was comfortable.  They began. The feeling for Clarice was extraordinary.  No words.  No exchanged glances. Just movement. It was like drifting in a small boat on an uncertain sea.  Swaying and dipping a little, hesitating and then gliding.  The sound of their feet scuffing the floor.  The softest change of weight from one side to another, the change in the curve of his shoulder, the slight pressure of the palm of his hand in the small of her back.  The tensing of his leg muscles, against her thigh.

Finally Dr. Lecter said  "You are not obliged to follow."   Clarice looked at him sharply.  This etiquette was new to her, but she relished it. And then the conversation began.  It was entirely silent.  It came with how much she hesitated before following his moves and the speed and aggression with which she responded to any invitation.  He stopped, poised.  He was waiting for her to direct the next move, to make a choice.  The concentration left her mind very clear.  They continued until the music stopped.  Clarice didn't remove her hand from behind his neck.  He breathed softly into her hair. Clarice finally lifted her head and looked at him.  She smiled a little.  

"Thank you". She stepped back and turned away.  Dr. Lecter's eyes sparked.

Dr. Gierowski came every day during the first week and then every other day the week after.  On the fourteenth day he hesitated after checking her over.  "I hope Ms Starling you won't feel the need to rush back to America."  There was a slightly embarrassed pause.   He looked up from his folded hands and looked directly at Clarice.   "You have the ability to contain him you know.  I am not sure that the rest of us can.  He was getting a little restive, before you arrived"  Dr Gierowski gave Clarice a small smile. 

"And why would I do that Doctor – for a seat in heaven ?"  Clarice responded a little tartly

"Because you can claim his attention indefinitely and if he doesn't behave himself, the Countess will give the order for him to be put down."  Clarice looked at the Doctor, nonplussed for a second.

"We are quite Medieval here.  The Countess comes from a very old family – even older than Hannibal's.  She wields great power here, because of her family but also because of her wealth.  In this part of Europe, you can buy any service.  This is a rural community, also, very conservative in many ways.  People won't tolerate upheavals, and inappropriate behaviour, particularly if that involves the authorities coming from Vilnius.  Dr Gierowski looked at her very intently.  "I think too, he holds some fascination for you.  Attraction is a strange beast.  Sometimes, you know, we should just listen to our instincts and ignore everything else."

"Please consider what I say.  I fear that if you return to the USA you will do yourself more harm than good.  I fear that you are in danger of defeating yourself – bitterness is an insidious poison, in the end it taints the blood, irretrievably.  We all can see that you have the courage and the strength to make a great leap for something else, something better."

The Doctor smiled warmly at Clarice, snapped his case shut and turned at the door.  "I will come again in two days."

Clarice sat staring at the covers.  Was that a viable life ? containing a …. a what ?  She couldn't think of a name – until it fell into her mind "My very own Miraculous Mandarin" and that was it – he believed he belonged to her like a binary star.  That was how she could check him.  And what would she get out of it ?  The answer came simply – power, over this preternatural being that no one else can hold.  And what a journey that would be ! – what uncertainties, what battles ! what triumphs at the end of the day !

He knocked on the door and slowly opened it.  She was sitting up in bed, knees a little bent, arms carelessly wrapped around them, staring to one side at the rumpled covers.  She was wearing an ivory silk shift.  Her hair glowed in the sunlight.

Dr Lecter stood stock still

She turned her head.  Dr Lecter shifted his weight to his heels.  It was the curve of her back and shoulders – like a bird of prey surveying its domain and her eyes black and imperious.

"I'm ready,"  she said.  "To make that journey you were talking about"

She carefully extended first one and then a second leg over the side of the bed.  Dr Lecter watched fascinated, the curve of her calf and her long, sinewy ankle and the unblemished feet.

Clarice turned towards the window.  Through the muslin she could see a figure standing between the birches to the right of the drive.  The way he stood looked familiar and when he turned a little to the left Clarice recognised him immediately and gasped.  It was Norman Gutkin with his trilby hat pushed back on his head, like Gene Hackman in the French Connection.  Clarice moved swiftly to the window, pushed the curtains apart to open it and call to him when she stopped.  She watched Norm put his left hand to his ear and bend his head a little.  She froze, arm half raised holding back the curtain.  'What the fuck ?'

She very slowly let the curtain drop into place stepped back and turned.  He was standing in the doorway of the bedroom eyes fixed on hers.  Clarice saw, that his shoulders were very tense.

"The mother fuckers used me as bait"  She spat out the last word.  She swallowed the outrage in her throat.  "I won't let them do this" Her anger flamed blue white.

From an unknown place in his mind came the words from the **_Pulchra Es from the Monteverdi vespers _**

_You are beautiful my love_

_Fair and lovely, daughter of Jerusalem_

_Terrible as an army with banners_

_Turn your eyes away_

_For they have overcome me_

He had to drop his gaze.  Clarice saw the implied submission. She felt the triumph spring in her stomach.  This monumental ego, for a second, had given way.

She decided in an instant.  "Where do we go ?" she was groping already for her shoes.

Dr Lecter looked up with a gleam in his eyes.  "The kitchen"

Fear made Clarice quick despite the pain and stiffness in her limbs.  Dr Lecter handed her clothes to her.  He bundled up her heavy camel overcoat and they sped downstairs.  The housekeeper was in the kitchen.  The large dresser had been moved a foot or so away from the wall.  Behind was a metal door opening into blackness.  Dr Lecter picked up a torch from the kitchen table and a leather bag.

The door slammed shut behind them and Dr Lecter shot the bolts.  Clarice heard the dresser being slid back.  The housekeeper took some clear furniture wax, mixed it with some dust and grime from a dustpan and smeared it around the base of the dresser.  She took her broom and flicked dust, and a few crumbs around the edges.  She patiently waited for the explosion and the sound of shattering glass and wisps of gas, which came 2 minutes later.  She exited quickly through the back door, hands above her head.

Dr Lecter's torch was steady.  There was a short passage and then a flight of stone steps.  They were dry but the stone walls were heavily streaked where water had run in the past.  The air smelt old and damp.

"This leads to the icehouse"  explained the Doctor.  The passage at the bottom of the stairs was hard packed gravel supporting two narrow gauge rails, heavily rusted.  The walls were clad with rough stone blocks as was the curved ceiling.  They could just stand upright.  The passage ran straight into the impenetrable darkness.  They moved swiftly without talking.  Dr Lecter led, glancing behind him now and then to make sure Clarice was close behind.  The sounds of their feet on the gravel were quite muffled.  Clarice got the impression that they were not progressing at all, simply stationary in a black vacuum.

After about 15 minutes they came to a similar set of steps and a metal door.  The bolts slid back smoothly

Clarice found herself in an oval room about 30 feet along its widest diameter with three raised stone shelves at different levels around the sides and a domed ceiling with exquisite fanned brickwork.  There were stone alcoves at intervals above the second shelf.  The floor was also stone with grooves cut into it leading to a small central drain.  It was all quite dry, but cold.

"We used to store food here as well as ice"  murmured Dr Lecter as he swung the torch through a full 360.

The door to the exterior was to the left, up another series of steps .  It was set at an angle , again, heavy metal.

"We are in the middle of a wood within a series, of what look like, burial mounds.  Local legend states that the area is irredeemably haunted.  We may be here a while.   Do you need some analgesics ?"

Clarice shook her head but reached for her camel coat.  She suddenly felt very cold.  Dr Lecter held it out for her so that she could slip her arms easily into the silk lined sleeves.  This had been the last piece of expensive clothing that she had bought herself in Boston with the proceeds from the sale of her house, after paying off the loan.  The silk lining felt cold, but the weight was comforting.  His hands barely touched her shoulders as she shrugged herself into the material.  

Suddenly she felt a dire need to be held and she reacted instinctively by leaning into him.  He hesitated only an instant and then wrapped his arms around her, breathing in the smell of her hair, apple and cinnamon.  His warmth and steadiness at her back, steadied Clarice and she closed her eyes and just breathed slowly.  After a while she was aware of an ache starting in her legs.  Dr Lecter briefly let go.  He sat down with his back against the first stone step.  "I will need to hold you if you want to keep warm" he said matter of factly.  His eyes glowed faintly in the torchlight.  Clarice sat down with her back to him, cradled between his legs, half bent.  She lay back against him with some relief.  Everything was aching again.  He held her.  She could feel his heart full against her back.  She slept.

Hannibal Lecter turned off the torch and surveyed his physical state.  Something had happened in the bedroom similar to the cusp at the Chesapeake.  It was almost a physical pain, but it came from somewhere internally.  He wanted her so much.  He was afraid that she would turn him into stone with her eyes if he made a move.  And now ?  Now he was aware of an enveloping warmth like the first mug of mead taken in front of a winter fire.  He could feel that the stroke volume of his heart had increased and his peripheral vessels had dilated despite the chill of the air.  Here she was.  She had chosen and now she was voluntarily allowing herself to be encircled by him.  He was filled with wonder, as he had been when Mischa had first smiled at him, untrammelled by any expectation.

He began to hum to himself very softly, a lullaby that his nurse had sung to him as a child.  He felt Clarice relax against him and her breath became slower and deeper.  He had the extraordinary sensation of her melting into him.  He had to hold his breath to catch and fix the moment.

Clarice woke in darkness.  Dr Lecter, immediately alert tightened his arms a little.

"You must be very stiff. Would you like to get up and move around ?  I would like to save the torch.  I can guide you"

He helped her up and then half behind her, guided her round the oval room.

"We stored all manner of food here all year round.  The smell when you opened the door was overwhelming sometimes – smoked meats, pickles, apples, herbs.  When it snowed it was sometimes impossible to open the outer door from the inside.  In between the bottles of fruit and chutneys we hid the more valuable treasures.  My Father kept an extra large block of ice at the end here.  He used to embed the bottles of vodka in the ice – all manner of flavours, damson, cherry, apple, citrus.  I was allowed my first sip on my 5th birthday in a shot glass from which my Grandfather had drunk Cossack blood, so the story goes."

"So you were an averagely bloodthirsty family ?"  Clarice meant this to sound mildly sarcastic, but it didn't come out that way.

Dr Lecter chuckled.  

"The majority of my older ancestors were either scholars or musicians.  Our knowledge was corralled by the Russian Royal family, to fill their houses and museums so we became pirates, looters for hire.  We had to learn other … survival skills."

He couldn't stop the excitement rising in his throat.  So much to show her.  Two small steps.

Clarice could see nothing in the pitch black, she could just feel his mass beside her, holding her or was it holding onto her ?  She could feel the resolve solidifying like molten iron, in her stomach.  Choice made.  

"Travel broadens the mind"  had been Morton's passing shot as she exited the office.  Clarice smiled to herself.


	12. Coupling

**Chapter 12**   Coupling

Rated R for explicit descriptions of  physical exchanges.

The characters Dr. Hannibal Lecter and Clarice Starling, contained herein were created by Thomas Harris. They are used without permission, but in the spirit of admiration and respect. No infringement of copyright is intended, and no profit, of any kind, is made by the maintainer, creators or contributors to this site.

They strolled together arm in arm for what seemed like hours, as if they were walking through a garden, talking of this and that.  Their childhoods,  places he had been to, his time in Florence, the other people in Firman's Bar in Boston.

Finally he said, into the darkness "So how does it feel Clarice to have dealt rough justice with your own hands ?"

Clarice hardly had to think of her answer at all.  "It feels fine."  Part of her mind recoiled at this.  There was no reaction from her companion. "Did it feel good when you killed yours ? when you killed Paul ?"

"More a satisfaction, at a necessary task completed"

Clarice felt the floor shift under her feet again.

"I don't anticipate indulging that particular appetite any more. I have a more pressing necessity to occupy me."

Clarice, momentarily felt alarmed.  She spat out  " I'm not your fucking pet project.  I came with you on my own terms and mine alone"

Hannibal Lecter smiled into the darkness and rejoiced.

At midnight, Dr Lecter shot the bolts and Clarice caught sight of a streak of moonlight.  No words were spoken.  Clarice followed his shadow.  They used narrow rabbit trails at first and then a half overgrown bridleway.  They stopped from time to time at clearings and when travelling close to roads.  

Apart from the last 500 metres they were entirely in forest.  For the last stretch they crouched behind a hedge for a good half hour while both the Doctor listened and observed and sniffed the air.  Clarice began to chill to the bone, even under her heavy coat.  Finally the Doctor moved off, undercover of the hedge and returned 30 minutes later.  

They waited for the moon to slip behind a cloud, Dr Lecter indicated to Clarice that she should move and stretch her legs for a few minutes before they were due to move, then swiftly, crouched behind the bent hawthorn Clarice followed him to the service entrance at the side of the Countess's villa.  Clarice's heart was pounding as he ushered her through into the kitchen. Clarice followed him through, down the corridor she had stepped with him the previous night and then up a set of servants' stairs, concealed behind an elaborate brass grille.  She could hear soft conversation in the salon.  

The stairs were narrow and all stone, beautifully dressed but worn in the middle of the tread from long use.  Dr Lecter used a pencil flashlight to help guide her.  They seemed to spiral upwards for an eternity.  Finally he pushed open a wooden door into a pale blue room with only a small dormer window.  There was a simple four poster bed in the corner and a washstand with a pitcher of water and towels.  He invited her to sit by the window.

Clarice raised her head  "I'm so cold.  Take me to bed.  Please"

He stared at her for a moment and then turned to examine the sleeping arrangements.  Not really up to his usual standard, but this was the attic – part of the old servants quarters.  He sat Clarice carefully on the bed and carefully removed her shoes and her coat. Then he drew back the covers and urged her to curl up while he tucked them closely all around her.

"I have to check what is going on downstairs.  I won't be long" He laid one light kiss on her hair and left silently.  

Clarice concentrated on getting warm under the duvet and before she was aware of it, sleep had overtaken her.

Dr Lecter crept to the bottom of the stairs and the brass grille.  He could hear the local police chief and 2 other unknown voices, conversing with the Countess who was at her most imperious.  "You have searched the house and grounds and found nothing.  It is inconceivable that he would stay in the area – the surrounding countryside is too easy to hide in.  I will be extremely surprised if you catch him.  Once he crosses into Belarus even the Mafia won't be able to touch him.  He will be there tonight, I am sure.  As for Ms Starling – who knows ?  I am devastated that I can be of no more assistance.  Danesh will show you out.  Good hunting."

He heard the salon door open and close, Danesh's shuffling feet and the stumbled apologies from the police chief and grumbling from the two others

"Who the hell does she think she is ?  Get Matt to call Warsaw – I want every spook they have all over this estate, at first light"

Dr Lecter climbed the stairs silently once more.  As he softly shut the door Clarice woke and sat up in bed.

"All well.  You should get some rest"

Clarice settled back into the pillows.  She felt completely safe.  Dr. Lecter settled himself in the chair by the window.  The moonlight illuminated one side of his face.  His eyes remained in the shadows.

Clarice remembered a time when she was ill and couldn't sleep. Her Pa had sat in the corner of her room, reading some sort of self improvement book, running a finger along the lines, from time to time and sighing.  She was in a different country from him, now.  She felt no regret.  Not even a tinge of sadness.  Everything was different – the quality of the light, the smell of the air around her, the food, the taste of the water, what was read, what was said, the feel of the sheets on her bed.

She was adrift but she could see this long line attached to this figure on the beach.  It would just be a long paddle, that's all.  Clarice's eyes closed.  Dr. Lecter watched. 

At first light Danesh moved them into the eaves through a trapdoor, hidden behind a huge pine wardrobe in one of the other bedrooms.  They could stand up in the roof space and there was some illumination coming from skylights.  It was very dusty. Every movement raised a haze that could be seen in the shafts of light.  

The floor was packed with trunks, tea boxes and memorabilia from years ago.  Toys, sledges with rusted runners, oil paintings black with old lacqueur, silk and lace brown edged with age and filigreed by moths.  Books and journals, leather bound the pages spotted with mildew.  Some beautiful glass vases and chandeliers coated in rimed dust. Framed photographs of the countess's former life, before the war.

The searchers confined their efforts to the gardens of the villa and the surrounding forest.  They heard a helicopter on the first day and dogs. Clarice Starling and Hannibal Lecter lived on the top two floors of the countess's villa for that week, exploring the attic museum.  Dr. Lecter told her a little of the countess's history and a great deal about the furniture, glassware and silver they found.  Danesh would bring them bread, salami, cheese and tea in a samovar in the morning and a light cooked meal in the evening.  They ate in a different bedroom every night.

Dr. Lecter insisted on watching as Clarice went to sleep.  Then he would retire to one of the other bedrooms and stare at the passage of the moonlight over the ceiling until he decided to close his eyes.  After a week the searchers departed.

"You really need to leave soon.  Word will get out" said the countess over supper on their tenth evening.

"I agree Elizabeth, but it is going to take at least two weeks to get Clarice a new passport and the visas that we will need.  We will just have to be careful in the interval."  He turned to Clarice.  "I thought perhaps Russia first and then Buenos Aries"

"Fine.  That sounds fine"  Clarice's voice surprised her.  It was rock solid.

Hannibal Lecter smiled and addressed his next comment direct to Clarice's conscience.  "There will be no regrets."  It was a bald statement, almost a command and as in most things relating to travel and new places, the Doctor was proved correct.

Years later Clarice reflected on this moment and imagined it as the final twist of a tuning key – the grand piano now perfectly voiced, ready to play.

They played bezique, piquet and bridge in the evenings, by candlelight and to spice things up a little, Clarice taught the countess the rudiments of poker.  Dr Lecter played sometimes on a harpsichord.  To keep her mind active, Clarice asked him to teach her some Italian. 

Dr Lecter's housekeeper appeared one morning with two Gladstone bags and the countess took a couple of trips in the Citroen to deal with the necessary paperwork.  They would be leaving separately, Clarice being escorted into Russia by Danesh. They would meet in St Petersburg.

One night they went up to one of the larger bedrooms after dinner to watch the sun flare over the forest.  The birches had already turned gold and were losing their leaves.  It had turned much colder in the past week and a steady, north easterly wind had started to blow off the plains, sucking smoke and sparks up the chimney from the open fire in the large salon.

Clarice looked at the burning wreckage of the sunset and suddenly felt an intense desire to separate everything, sever all shackles, ropes and chains.  She wanted to extract herself from this now suffocating limbo.  She just wanted to go, away from this place.  She wanted to be free …. with him.  She felt she could see very clearly, beyond the horizon.

Clarice looked at him for a moment.  The sun had fired his eyes. There was something else they had to do.  She stepped away from the window and stood close to him, looking intently into his eyes.  This contract had to be sealed

Her decision was instant and without any further hesitation she placed a hand behind his neck to draw him to her and kissed him.  His lips were very soft.  She opened her mouth slightly and tentatively started to explore his teeth with the tip of her tongue.  His reaction was a sharp intake of breath and a drawing back.  She held his neck, vice like and finally she felt his shoulders relax and both arms came round her to draw her close.  He took a deep breath in as their bodies melded together and she tilted her hips into his.  The kiss deepened and both tongues began to explore freely.

Clarice moved her hands to the lapels of his jacket and he took this as a sign to draw back a little.  Clarice ran her hands inside it to slip it off his shoulders and slowly undid his shirt buttons .  He raised his arms to allow her to undo the cuffs, looking at her all the time.  Her hands drifted to his waist.  His stomach muscles contracted as she undid his belt and unzipped him. She could feel the hard swell under the silk of his underpants and brushed her fingers over it as she released his trousers.  He breathed in as she did this and she felt his thigh muscles contract.  Her breasts brushed past the straining cock under the material as she bent down to help him out of his trousers and shoes and socks.  His feet, she noticed had as perfect nails as his hands.  She slowly stood upright again, not touching him this time and was rewarded by fire in his eyes.  Slowly she approached him until they almost touched.  "You may undress me" she whispered.  

He breathed slowly as he unwrapped her.  Her breasts were fuller than he remembered and looked stunning in the silk she had bought in Warsaw.  In the chill of the bedroom her nipples were straining against the glossy fabric .  He caressed them savouring every slip under his fingers and the feel of her breathing under his hands.  He precisely moved the straps of the chemise off her shoulders.  It fell silently to the floor.  He cupped her breasts in his hands drinking in their fullness.

Then he looked into her eyes and drew her close, feeling her nipples brush his chest and his penis strain against the fabric of his pants and her stomach. This touch clearly fired her because she started to explore his mouth with her lips and teeth while slipping her hand inside his briefs to release his cock and to massage his balls.  The head of his penis felt incredibly soft, to her fingers.  He reciprocated by running his hand over her buttocks, rounded and contracting as she moved her hips forward under his touch.  

He finally gently pushed her away to step out of his briefs .  She followed his lead.  He sat on the bed and watching her all the time gently drew her to straddle him .  Clarice's breath became shorter as she felt his cock bucking under her.  Her breasts were achingly full, the nipples exquisitely hard and sensitive to his breath.  

He bent his head and ran his lips and tongue around each areola and then gently suckled.  Clarice was desperate to have him inside her.  He seemed to sense this and encircled her waist and turned her softly into the sheets.  They were linen, cool and smooth.  

He was half kneeling between her thighs, leaning forward, his weight on his arms.  He studied her face intently gauging every bite of the lip, every flash of the eye as he started to make small exploratory strokes.   She could feel the head of his penis against her folds, stiff, like velvet at the tip.  He whispered to her in Italian.  She caught the odd word – amore, belissima, adorera.

"Please" she breathed

He thrust a little deeper and felt her folds enclose him completely. He had to drop his head to her neck and still for a moment to keep control. He spoke her name softly, savouring every syllable

When he looked up she formed the same word again her eyes liquid with desire.  Watching her the whole time, he withdrew his full length and then applied one smooth thrust to his full depth.  She arched her back and gasped , wrapping her legs around him to hold him deep inside.  He felt her cervix spasm as he held himself still for a moment.

He heard her small pants of surprise and then delight as he lifted her hips with both his arms and hugged her close in.  He began to move gently inside her.  She could feel his abdominal muscles contract at each stroke and ripple against her clitoris.  This built her fire which he stoked with each movement .  She could see the muscles between his ribs straining  and she ran her fingers over them and felt a fine tremor, covering his whole body.  

He changed his position a little and the next thrust seemed to strike her very core. Clarice gasped.  She began to move her hips encouraging him to thrust deeper.  Her movements became more frantic as she felt her climax build.  He waited until he could feel her internal muscles contract and then pushed as hard as he dared.  He held her hips still against him as she squeezed around him and then fell on her neck as he emptied himself inside her.  Clarice cried out incoherently and felt his breath coming in wracking sobs as his climax fell over both of them.  She felt herself open up and drink as the fire consumed her.  

They lay spent, skin slick with sweat for a long time as their breathing slowed.  He turned his head and moved sideways a little without slipping out of her and stared at her  - the curve of her eyelashes, her cheek with the powder burn.  Now it had happened it was wondrous to him that she was here, that he was inside her, contained completely.  He bent his head to kiss her shoulder.  

Clarice stirred.  She turned her head on the damp pillow and studied his face in this new, completely blissful state.  The lines had gone from his forehead and had smoothed out around his mouth.  His skin glowed in the half light.  His eyes were limpid and black as she imagined a stags to be at rest.

Almost apologetically he kissed her gently on the lips and withdrew.  She gently pulled his head down onto her breast..  His arm encircled her waist and they tangled  their legs.  He appeared to sleep almost instantly.  Deep slow breaths over the curve of her stomach.

Later he woke and with the gentlest of smiles turned her back into him.  He moved her hair and kissed her neck as he moulded his body to her back and hips and legs.  His arm encircled her.  They slept like this for the rest of the night, his breathing so silent she could only feel it against her hair.

She woke at dawn.  There was only a single linen sheet covering them but his body heat seemed to cover her entirely.  She studied his right hand half curled  on the sheet in a pool of light coming through the curtains.  The length and breadth of his fingers, the immaculately manicured nails the veins like ropes of lapis lazuli.  She smiled at an old Ardelia comment "Men with big hands have all the best equipment"

How could this hand create so much mayhem and then caress so deliciously? 'It is just a tool Clarice just as you were a tool.  Now you are an individual.  Stand or fall on your own Clarice.  Make your own way.'

"Good morning Clarice"  She heard the whisper in her ear and the kisses on her back and shoulders.  She turned to him, uncertain of what she would see.  Calm, innocent merriment she thought and then a shadow of something passing behind the eyes.  She responded instinctively.  She laid her hands on either side of his face and kissed him deeply.  She felt the sharp intake of breath and a shiver that ran through his entire frame.  She felt impelled to encircle him with her body to still it – arms around his back, legs wrapped around his hips.  When the trembling lessened she pulled back a little "I want to be with you" she said quite simply.  As she said the words he could feel the breath being sucked out of him like silk scarves being drawn from a conjuror's sleeve.  He kissed her slowly and deeply.

Finally he lay back and studied her face, minutely, looking for some physical change.  He saw none, other than the look in her eyes.  With a small smile he said "A thousand years, and it seems like only yesterday"

No lights. No fire, just the heat and light of their minds and bodies and the all enfolding duck down covers and the heaviness of linen sheets.

The sex during the following week was, by turns, rapacious and languorous.  In between they whispered their histories to one another.

Danesh left food for them laid out on a large oval silver salver and clean bed linen wrapped in muslin, outside the door of their room.  He would collect the food, almost untouched, in the evening along with the rumpled sheets.

Their passports and visas came finally, wrapped inside a musical score – Bartok's Bluebeard's Castle.  Clarice didn't hesitate.  She knew that she would be able to embrace and contain whatever it was, behind this last door.


	13. Finis

**Chapter 13**   Finis

Hubby preferred this ending, which is why I'm posting it.

The characters Dr. Hannibal Lecter and Clarice Starling, contained herein were created by Thomas Harris. They are used without permission, but in the spirit of admiration and respect. No infringement of copyright is intended, and no profit, of any kind, is made by the maintainer, creators or contributors to this site.

"Are you afraid Clarice of travelling , of foreign parts "

"Not with you"

He turned to face her and looked her straight in the eye.  She could see the burning pin wheels.

"Are you ready ?"  He looked at her intently as he said this.

"Yes" replied Clarice a little puzzled.  He smiled .  "Let me just apply some appropriate music"  He pulled a remote from his pocket with his right hand and bending his thumb pressed a couple of the buttons.  The music swelled to fill the room – **_The Magnificat from Mozarts 1780 Vespers_**

He came very close and wrapped his left arm around her back. She felt something icy slip under her ribs through her diaphragm and into her heart.  There wasn't even time for a tear before her vagus nerve was severed and her heart stopped

He held her close and then gently laid her on the polished floor.  There was the smallest red stain at the entry point.  He felt great pride in the neatness of the thrust.  He reached for an old black leather box on the long sideboard and reverentially opened the lid.  A line of beautifully polished dissection knives with ivory handles lay in precise order on cream satin.  He felt in his pocket and laid the Luger carefully by the side of the box.

The Countess watched and smiled a wintry smile. "Bon appetit."

She pulled her ermine around her and sauntered onto the terrace and into the garden.  The fur dragged around her ankles drawing up the crumpled leaves around her boots.  She was admiring a pattern of bare twigs against an intensely blue sky when she heard the single shot.  The countess coughed discreetly into her handkerchief and continued her walk.  Danesh would clear up.


End file.
